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“ALL MEN ARE LIARS” 



ALL MEN ARE LIARS” 




^ Nobel 



JOSEPH HOCKING 

AUTHOR OF 

THE STORY OF ANDREW FAIRFAX,” “ ISHMAEL PENGELLY; 
AN outcast/’ “the MONK OF MAR SABA,” ETC, 


“I said in my haste, All men are liars’’ 

Psalms 

i 



ROBERTS BROTHERS 


* ' • 



Copyright, 1895, 

By Roberts Brothers. 

All rights reserved. 





SEnibersits ?prfss : 

John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U. S. A. 


At 



CONTENTS 


Part I. 

EDU CATION, , 

CHAPTER 1. 

Page 

Luke Edgcumbe, Cynic 1 

CHAPTER II. 

Uncle and Nephew 11 

CHAPTER III. 

Dreams and Visions . 23 

CHAPTER IV. 

Love’s Young Dream 34 

CHAPTER V. 

The Cynic’s Religion 44 

' CHAPTER VI. 

Ralph Hussey’s Gratitude 56 

CHAPTER VII. 

The Cynic’s Views about Professions .... 67 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Stephen’s Coach 78 

CHAPTER IX. 

The Question of Marriage from a Cynic’s 

Standpoint 90 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


Part II. 

ORDEAL. 

CHAPTER I. 

Page 

Disillusionment 104 

CHAPTER II. 

The Parting of the Ways 116 

CHAPTER III. 

Shrimp 129 

CHAPTER IV. 

A Saturday Night in Battersea 141 

CHAPTER V. 

Sunday in Battersea . . . . : 154 

CHAPTER VI. 

The Cynics’ Views on Literature 168 

CHAPTER VII. 

Current Morality 179 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Unconventional Society 192 

t 

CHAPTER IX. 

% The Coming Night 204 

CHAPTER X. 

The Morality of the “Deserving Poor (?)” . . 215 

CHAPTER XL 

A Wife’s Faithfulness 226 


CONTENTS. 


vii 

CHAPTER XII. 

Page 

A Look at Hell 237 

CHAPTER XIII. 

The March of Events 248 

CHAPTER XIV. 

The Last Straw .^ . . . 259 

CHAPTER XV. 

After Five Years 272 

CHAPTER XVI. 

15 Chainly Alley 284 

CHAPTER XVII. 

A Product of Cynicism 295 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Stephen’s Story, — and After 306 

CHAPTER XIX. 

The Logic of Pessimism 318 


Part III. 

HOPE. 

CHAPTER I. 

Beginnings 331 

CHAPTER II. 

“I Bid You Hope” 341 


viii 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER III. 

Page 

Struggling Upward 351 

.CHAPTER IV. 

The Curse of the Past 362 

CHAPTER V. 

Hopes and Fears 375 

CHAPTER VI. 

How Stephen paid his Debt 385 

CHAPTER VH. 

Back to Work Again 397 

> CHAPTER VIII. 

The Refining Fire 407 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS 


PART L 


EDUGA TIOE, 


CHAPTER I 


LUKE EDGCUMBE, CYNIC. 


The Cynic puts all human actions into only two classes, — openly 
bad, and secretly bad. All virtue, and generosity, and disinterested- 
ness, are merely the appearance of good, but selfish at the bottom. 
He Wds that no man does a good thing except for profit. 


>. H. W. Beecher. 


HEN first I heard of Stephen Edgcurnbe I was 



sitting with my father at our little house, 


which was situated between the market town of 
Witney on the one hand and Witney Hall on the 
other. Let me be correct, though. The name of the 
house, which was originally Witney Hall, had been 
altered, some time before, to Edgcurnbe Hall, by the 
present proprietor, Luke Edgcurnbe, Esq. So that 
when I was a lad, although the older folks called it 
Witney Hall, the younger generation had found it 
natural to fall in with the wishes of the man who 
reigned there. 

My father had just returned from Edgcurnbe Hall, 
and we were sitting together at tea, when, to my sur- 
prise, he began to speak to me concerning his business 


2 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


with Luke Edgcumbe. This was a very uncommon 
thing for him to do ; for although he was communica- 
tive to me on many matters, he seldom spoke about 
the Hall business. I may as well state here that my 
father, Asher Eoberts, was the steward of Luke 
Edgcumbe, and managed the Edgcumbe estate; for 
although he was a solicitor by profession, and still 
practised at Witney, he had plenty of time to fulfil 
his duties as steward. 

“ Daniel,” said my father, “ Mr. Edgcumbe wants 
you to accompany me when I visit him to-morrow, 
as he wishes to see you and speak to you.” 

I looked up in surprise. 

“ There is to be a little bit of a change in the life 
of Mr. Edgcumbe,” went on my father, — “ at least, I 
hope so, — and he wishes to speak to you about it.” 

‘‘ To me, father ? ” 

“ To you, Daniel.” 

I waited in silence. 

‘‘Mr. Edgcumbe has a nephew about your age who 
is coming to stay with him. He is just seventeen, 
while you were seventeen last month.” 

I still waited, wondering what Mr. Edgcumbe’s 
nephew might have to do with me ; but I asked no 
question, for my father invariably delayed his com- 
munications when I asked him questions. 

“ As you know,” my father went on, “ Luke Edg- 
cumbe is a bachelor, and does n’t like lads. But his 
brother has just died, leaving a son behind him. 
This lad — his mother having died when he was 
born — is an orphan, and Mr. Edgcumbe was asked 
a few days ago, in a letter from his dying brother, to 
take care of him. He has consented.” 

I still waited, wondering what Luke Edgcumbe’s 
nephew had to do with me, and why I should be 
invited to the Hall. My father continued : — 

“ It is now J uly, and no school or college will be 


LUKE EDGCUMBE, CYNIC. 


3 


open until towards October, and Mr. Edgcumbe is 
anxious that you should be friendly with his nephew, 
— he is coming the day after to-morrow, — in short, 
take him off his hands until the autumn, when he 
may be sent to some school or college.” 

I could be silent no longer. 

““But what sort of a fellow is he, father ?” I cried ; 
“ where does he come from, and what is his name ? ” 

“ Of course,” my father went on, “ this is why Mr. 
Edgcumbe wishes to see you. l^aturally, he wants a 
companion for his nephew who is his equal in social 
status and education, and who, moreover, is well 
behaved and a gentleman.” 

I was eager to repeat my question again, but I 
knew my father’s habits, and was silent. 

“This nephew is the son of a Nonconformist min- 
ister; his name is Stephen, — Stephen Edgcumbe, — 
and during the last five years he has attended one 
of these schools or colleges which have been erected 
for the education of ministers’ sons. He is said 
to be very clever ; beyond that I know nothing at 
present.” 

I must confess to being pleased at my father’s 
news. I had just returned from a public school my- 
self, and was wondering what I should do during the 
vacation ; for my mother had died when I was quite 
a little fellow, and, not having any brothers or sisters, 
I often felt lonely at home ; while for some reason or 
other I had formed no close acquaintances among the 
youths at Witney. Thus the prospect of a companion 
during the next three months, and that companion 
the squire’s nephew, was exceedingly pleasant. 

I waited for further explanations, but none were 
forthcoming, and the only reply I got to my questions 
was that I should see Mr. Edgcumbe on the morrow, 
who would perhaps satisfy my curiosity. 

The following morning, therefore, I was ready to 


4 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


accompany my father. He was very quiet during 
the breakfast hour, devoting most of his attention to 
a letter which came by that morning’s post, and 
which he read several times. Presently we got in 
the trap, and our fast-trotting mare drew us rapidly 
towards the Hall. 

“ What do you mean to he ? ” my father asked 
suddenly. 

“ I have n’t thought,” I replied. 

‘‘ Lawyer ? ” 

I shook my head. 

“ Parson ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Doctor ? ” 

That ’s as good as anything.” 

Ah ! ” He said no more, but I thought there 
was a pleased look on his face. 

I asked no questions, for I knew that what my 
father thought best for me to know would be told 
me without any interrogations on my part. 

Presently we came to the Hall, a fine old place, 
surrounded by a broad park. The carriage drive 
was lined with stately old elms, while the country- 
side was well wooded everywhere. The house was 
over a century old, but my father informed me that 
the interior was replete with all modern improvements 
and comforts. 

We entered the house together, my father being 
ushered straight into the library, where Mr. Edgcumbe 
was, while I waited in the room adjoining until I was 
wanted. 

I amused myself as well as I could for a few min- 
utes by looking at an illustrated paper, when my 
attention was attracted by the sound of voices in the 
library. 

“You’ve brought your son, Mr. Eoberts?” It 
was the squire who spoke. 


LUKE EDGCUMBE, CYNIC. 


5 


'*Yes,” replied my father; “he’s in the adjoining 
room.” 

“ You ’ve told him why I wished to see him ? ” 

“ I told him what you told me last night ; but, as 
you know, that was very little. You were called 
away just as you were entering into particulars.” 

“ Just so ; but there are very few particulars. My 
nephew arrives to-morrow, and I am anxious that he 
shall have some one about his own age for a 
companion until October.” 

Without thinking whether I was breaking any 
laws of honor, I listened for what might follow. I 
felt interested, and wanted to hear what the squire 
would tell my father. 

“ Would you mind telling me the nature of my 
son’s duties ? ” said my father, a little stiffly, I 
thought. ' - 

“ I do not know of any duties in particular,” replied 
Luke Edgcumbe. “I want my brother’s lad taken 
off my hands, and providing I am pleased with your 
son, I shall be very glad if he will do it.” 

“ It is very kind of you,” replied ray father ; “ but 
as my son is my son, I shall be glad to know some- 
thing about your nephew.” 

I knew my father was a little nettled, by the tone 
of his voice ; evidently he did not care about his son 
being utilized to oblige his employer, without having 
some idea of the circumstances of the case. 

“ Oh, I see. You need have no fear, Mr. Eoberts. 
My nephew will, I ’ve no doubt, be the pink of pro- 
priety. I have never seen him ; but I will vouch for 
him being a pattern lad, well dressed, pious, and all 
that. As I told you, my brother was a parson of the 
dissenting type, one of those people who work their 
fingers to the bone for the good of the people. His 
house was well ordered, so no doubt he ’ll find this 
house rather heathenish. In his letter to me, my 


6 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


brother told me that the lad Stephen was a good lad ; 
so no doubt he ’s one of those pale-faced pattern boys, 
of the religious order. Never fear; he will not con- 
taminate your son. Perhaps it ’ll be the other way 
about, eh ? ” 

I could not help detecting a slight sneer in Mr. 
Edgcumbe’s reply, although my father did not seem 
to take notice of it. 

“ I think Daniel is well-behaved and reliable,” he 
replied ; “ but of that you can judge for yourself.” 

“ Then matters can be managed without trouble. 
Both being such patterns, all anxiety will cease. 
But your son is outside, you say ; let him come in.” 

My father opened the door, and asked me to come 
in. Glancing quickly round the library, I saw that 
the room was well lined with books ; but before I 
could make further observations, Mr. Edgcumbe 
turned around from a little cabinet which he had 
been examining, and looked me straight in the face. 

He was a tall, thin man, of about fifty years of 
age. His hair was iron gray, and had become very 
thin at the top of the head. His eyes were small, 
and the narrow bridge of his nose seemed to scarcely 
divide them. His forehead was high and narrow, his 
mouth compressed and drawn down at the corners. 
This was the first time I had ever seen Luke Edg- 
cumbe, and, boy as I was, I could not help making 
certain mental calculations about him. I instinct- 
ively felt him to be a clever man, his deep-set, pierc- 
ing eyes revealed the fact immediately, while his 
thin lips and somewhat bitter smile told me that he 
was a stranger to sympathy. In the conversation 
which followed, I could not help thinking of him as a 
kind of duality. Sometimes he impressed me as a 
keen, hard business man, living only for pounds, shil- 
ings, and pence ; and again, I could not help seeing 
that he had read much, thought much, seen much, and 


LUKE EDGCUMBE, CYNIC. 


7 


was keen in his analysis of men and motives. He 
made me uncomfortable, for he never seemed in 
earnest ; his mouth was drawn down at the corners 
by a mocking smile, while his voice was never hearty. 
There was also another peculiarity about him which 
I could not understand. He seemed communicative 
and reserved at the same time. When he appeared 
to be taking you into his confidence, you instinctively 
felt that he was keeping back that which he regarded 
as important. Altogether, I, being a lad of rather 
strong impulses, did not like him. 

I saw, too, that his deep-set eyes rested keenly on 
me, and he seemed to reckon me up as a tradesman 
reckons up the value of any article he is inclined to 
buy. 

“ Well, young sir,” he said, “ I suppose you have 
heard what your father and I have been talking 
about ? ” 

Yes, sir.” 

“ That ’s right, tell the truth ; for, after all, truth 
pays best generally. Well, you know that my nephew 
is coming to-morrow, and that I want some one to 
be with him. I am satisfied with you ; will you 
stay here with Stephen Edgcurnbe until he goes to 
college ? ” 

“ Stay here ? ” 

“ Yes ; I want him taken off my hands as much as 
-possible. You will have the run of a good part of 
the house, and all the grounds. Is that agreeable ? ” 

“If your nephew and I suit each other,” I said, 
“ and if it is understood that I can visit my father 
often, I shall be very willing.” 

“ Very well,” he said ; “ no doubt you will quarrel, 
and make up again, and all that sort of thing ; but if 
you are what you seem to be, and if Stephen is my 
brother’s son, I shall not see much of you.” 

I could not help thinking that this was rather 


8 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


heartless ; but I said nothing, while my father sat and 
watched us both closely. 

“ Yes,” he went on, “ the matter is settled. You 
can look at the books, if you wish. Now then, Mr. 
Eoberts.” 

I went away from them toward the other end of 
the library, and for a time my thoughts were divided 
between the books on the shelves and Stephen Edg- 
cumbe, a picture of whom I had already conjured up. 
At intervals I heard my father conversing with the 
squire, but for a long time took no notice of anything 
that was said. Presently, however, their voices be- 
came louder. 

" No,” I heard Mr. Edgcumbe say, “ my brother did 
not leave a penny. He never did know what to do 
with money ; he never had sixpence to call his own 
— but once, and then he soon got rid of it.” 

My father made no remark. 

“ We came of an old Puritan family,” he went on, 
in one of his bursts of confidence, “ and my brother 
Steve and I were the only children who grew up out 
of a large family. This was strange, for all the other 
children were healthy, as children, while Steve and I, 
who were twins, were sickly. However, we grew up, 
as unlike as two boys could be. He was always a 
dreamy sort of a fellow, of a religious build, and I — 
well, I was different. He was a favorite with every 
one — I was n’t. My mother died when we were 
twelve ; and when we were about the same age as the 
lad whom Steve has foisted upon me, my father also 
went the way of all flesh. 

“ He left us four hundred pounds, which were to 
be equally divided ; and when matters were settled, 
Steve, who was always reading and preaching — I 
suppose that was why he was so popular with the 
women — spent his fortune in getting into a college 
where they manufacture parsons. Well, that life 


LUKE EDGCUMBE, CYNIC. 


9 


suited him best. I, on the other hand, went off to 
London to make a fortune. I had more than the 
proverbial half a crown, you see ; I possessed two 
hundred pounds. Yes, I ’m not ashamed of my be- 
ginning. I find that none of the county families 
cut me because I made my money by trade. After I 
felt my feet a bit, and measured the world and men, 
I spent my two hundred pounds in jam. Of course, 
Eoberts, you know that jam bought Witney Hall, and 
changed it into Edgcumbe Hall ; jam furnished it, and 
jam keeps it going. Through jam I ’ve a big bank- 
ing account. Steve wasted his money in training to 
be a parson. Like a fool, he worked for people who 
did n’t care a toss-up about him ; and then, when he ’d 
killed himself, they sang the doxology at his grave, 
and are now on the look-out for somebody else to tell 
them about heaven. He w^orked for them for five- 
and-twenty years for a salary that the foreman of my 
jam factory would have scorned ; and now he ’s dead, 
all that his dear people, among whom he thought 
himself so popular, are going to do, is to erect a tomb- 
stone in memory of their dear pastor. The boy, of 
course, comes to me.” 

“And your brother’s wife ?” 

“ She ’s dead,” said Luke Edgcumbe, harshly. “ She 
suffered his poverty when she might have had plenty ; 
but then Steve was always a favorite with the women, 
— parsons always are. She died when this nephew 
of mine was born.” 

“Your brother never married again ?” 

“ Ho.” 

It was at this point that I felt that behind all his 
freedom in telling about himself there was much left 
untold. My father evidently saw that this part of the 
subject was distasteful, and so began to talk of some- 
thing else. 

“ You have no plans about your nephew’s future ?” 


10 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


I must see him first. I ’m not much inter- 
ested at present ; I must see what he ’s like. I 
expect, from his father’s letter, that he ’s of the pious 
sort, and will want to be a parson.” 

“ I hope he will appreciate his good fortune in 
finding such a home, and that you may have reason 
to be glad you have a nephew,” said my father. 

After this I became more and more anxious to see 
Stephen Edgcumbe. 

Half an hour later we drove away from the house, 
— I feeling as though I wanted to draw a deep 
breath and to stretch my limbs, while a thoughtful 
look rested on my father’s face. 


UNCLE AND NEPHEW. 


11 


CHAPTEK II. 

UNCLE AND NEPHEW. 


There ’s something in a noble boy, 

A brave, free-hearted, careless one. 

With his unchecked, unbidden joy, 

His dread of books and love of fun, — 

And in his clear and ruddy smile, 

Unshaded by a thought of guile. 

And unrepressed by sadness, — 

Which brings to me my childhood back. 

As if I trod its very track. 

And felt its very gladness. 

N. P. Willis. 

T he following day about three o’clock Mr. Edg- 
cumbe’s carriage stopped at the door of my 
father’s house, and a few minutes later I was driven 
to Witney Station. Looking back through the vista 
of years which have passed since then, I remember 
that I was very joyous, very expectant, and looked 
forward to a downright good time. I was a little bit 
afraid of Stephen Edgcumbe being a goody-goody, 
lachrymose sort of a fellow, but I hoped for the best. 
Anyhow, I had made up my mind to like him if pos- 
sible ; and such a resolution, I have since found, goes 
a long way towards deciding what follows. 

I had not long to wait for the train, and there was 
no difficulty in identifying Stephen Edgcumbe. For, 
first of all, the passengers who alighted were very few, 
nearly all of whom I knew ; while he, as soon as he 
had stepped from the carriage door, looked eagerly 
around as if expecting some one to meet him. 


12 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


I went up to him without hesitation. 

“ You are Stephen Edgcumbe ? ” 

‘‘ Yes,” he said, holding out his hand ; “ and you ? ” 
“I am Daniel Koberts, son of your uncle's solicitor 
and steward ; and if we get on well, I am to be your 
companion for a few weeks.” 

He looked at me in a quick, questioning way, and 
then gave my hand a hearty squeeze. 

“ That 's grand,” he said ; “ but about my luggage ? ” 
"‘It’s safe in the carriage by this time,” I said, 
noticing that the groom had been examining and 
carrying one or two trunks towards the carriage. 

“ And you are going back with me ? ” 

“ If you like.” 

“ Eather,” he cried. Come on.” 

Certainly he was altogether different from what I 
imagined, and his every movement dispelled the 
goody-goody, lachrymose idea. Taller than I by 
several inches, he was straight as a rule, and walked 
with a light, springy step. His face was rather pale, 
certainly, and at times his eyes became dim, as 
though he were thinking sadly ; but on the whole I 
thought I never saw a handsomer fellow. His face 
was what some people call “ clean cut,” his eyes were 
large and black, his forehead broad, and his hair jet- 
black, curling over the temples. I, who was always 
plain, and a little undersized, envied him such splen- 
did physique. I could see, too, that, in spite of his 
sorrow, he loved fun, and was brimming over with 
mischief and laughter. I found out afterwards that 
he was extremely sensitive, and susceptible to what 
influences might be brought to bear on him. 

By the time we got into the carriage I was in love 
with him. Any boy^of seventeen will know what I 
mean ; any man who remembers that he has been a 
boy of seventeen will understand me. I had been 
rather a lonely lad, just a little bit quiet and studious. 


UNCLE AND NEPHEW. 


13 


with a hobby for scientific experiments, not quick to 
make friends, and not regarded as sociable ; but 
Stephen Edgcumbe captivated me at first sight. I 
could not resist the brightness of his eyes, or the 
clear ring of his voice; and before we had been 
together five minutes, I had forgotten that he was a 
stranger. 

“ There ’s my home,” I said, as the carriage swept 
past my father’s house ; “ it ’s nearly hidden by the 
trees, but it ’s a jolly old place. My mother’s dead, 
and dad ’s only got me.” 

I was sorry I spoke a minute after. I saw his lips 
tremble, and his eyes moisten. No doubt he remem- 
bered that he was an orphan, and was dependent on 
the man whom, as yet, he had never seen. 

For my own part I wondered what impression he 
would make on his uncle, and whether the man 
dwelling in grand loneliness would be kind to his 
relative. 

“ Do you know my uncle ? ” he asked at length. 

I saw him yesterday for the first time. You see, 
he ’s been living at the Hall only a year, while I ’ve 
been at school most of the time.” 

“ I never saw him,” he said ; “ it was my father’s 
wish that I should come to him, and I could do no 
other than obey. Had he told me to go to the ends 
of the earth, I would have gone.” 

I did not speak. 

“ The world has felt like a new place since he ’s 
left me,” he said. “ It ’s true I was away a goodish 
bit, but all the vacations we were together, and I 
always went with him when he had his summer 
holidays ; we used to fish, and swim, and go boating ; 
— now all is changed. I don’t know why he wanted 
me to go to Uncle Luke, for I don’t think they ever 
hit it. Still, it ’s very kind of uncle to have me, is n ’t 
it?” 


14 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


He had become thoughtful, and the merry sparkle 
had gone from his eyes ; his dark face contracted as 
*if he were in pain. 

“ You Ve to go to college in the autumn,” I said ; '' I 
don’t know where, perhaps to Oxford or Cambridge.” 

“ Am I ? ” he said. “ Well, I mean to work hard 
wherever I go, and I mean to pay Uncle Luke every 
penny he spends for me. Can you play cricket ? ” 

A cricket match in the neighboring field changed 
the conversation. 

“ Only fairly,” I said ; “ and you ? ” 

Just a bit. Ours is a good club, and I’m down- 
right fond of it. Ah, his middle stump is down, — 
well bowled ! ” 

I saw that Stephen Edgcumbe was an enthusiast, 
and I liked him the more for it. All reserve was 
broken down between us, and we talked freely. 

Presently we entered the Hall grounds, and I 
watched my companion while, with beauty -loving 
eyes, he looked around, noting the stately oaks that 
grew in the park, the green woods away beyond, the 
undulating country, which was decked in the gorgeous 
foliage of early July. 

“ This is your uncle ’s,” I said ; " there ’s the house 
yonder, — your future home.” 

“ I had no idea it was so fine,” he said. “ Father 
told me that Uncle Luke was a rich man, but I did 
not know he had such a place as this. My father 
said that, when grandfather died, they had <£200 
each ; and that while he spent his in going to 
college. Uncle Luke went into business.” 

“ Business pays better than divinity,” I suggested. 

“Ours was such a little house,” he said; “it be- 
longed to the church. Father was asked many times 
to go to large, wealthy churches, but he wouldn’t. 
He was fond of the people, and they were mostly 
poor, so he stayed with them to the end.” 


UNCLE AND NEPHEW. 


15 


The carriage drew up to the door of the great 
house, and we quickly alighted. A servant led us 
into the library, where the great jam manufacturer 
awaited us. He took no notice of me, naturally; 
but as his eyes rested on Stephen, I thought the 
discontented, bored look which had rested on his face 
passed away a little. 

There was a slight resemblance between them. 
The shape of the chin was the same ; and although 
Stephen’s face was cast in a fuller and more perfect 
mould, the contours of the features were not unlike. 
And yet there was all the difference. Luke Edg-r 
cumbe’s face was something like what Stephen’s 
might become if he grew to be hard and unsympa- 
thetic ; as yet the dissimilarity would have impressed 
the casual observer rather than the likeness. 

“I am your uncle, your Uncle Luke,” said the 
older man, holding out his hand. “ You are like your 
father a little, but more like — that is, I hope you 
had no bother in getting here.” 

It was a cold, unsympathetic greeting, considering 
the circumstances ; and yet I felt that, for Luke 
Edgcumbe, it was cordial. 

“ Ho, thank you, uncle ; I had no difficulty in 
getting here. You see, Daniel Eoberts met me. 
We ’ve had a fine ride.” 

“ That ’s right. If you don’t quarrel, Daniel will 
stay with you till October. I am generally very 
busy, and have no time to talk. Are you hungry ? ” 

“ Ho — that is, I don’t mind.” 

Ah, you are hungry. Let ’s see, — it ’s half-past 
four: dinner will be ready in an hour and a half. 
You can wait till then, I expect.” 

“ Oh, yes.” 

'' That ’s right. When I was your age I went to 
London, and for three years lived on seven shillings 
a week. I ’ve gone hungry many a time because I 


16 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


wanted to get on. You’ve never gone hungry, I 
expect?” 

“ Not long.” 

“ Well, you are better off than I was ; but there, 
I ’m too busy to talk just now. You and Eoberts 
can be off until six. I need n’t tell you not to 
quarrel ; it ’s too soon for that.” 

We went out together, Stephen looking rather 
gloomy and depressed. 

“ Do you like my uncle ? ” he asked, in an absent 
sort of way. 

I did not know what to answer, so I said, “ Do 
you ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” he replied ; “ only he ’s so unlike 
dad.” 

We walked through the park together, and on 
towards a valley which lay in the distance, where a 
large pond nestled almost hidden by the trees. The 
water at the edges was still, scarcely a ripple disturb- 
ing it ; in the middle, however, there was a swift 
movement. The truth was, the lake was partly 
natural, partly artificial ; for the course of the river 
had been turned, so as to beautify what would have 
otherwise been a large swampy place. In the mid- 
dle, therefore, where the stream ran, was a strong 
current. 

Nothing could be more beautiful than its clear 
waters, half hidden by the trees, yet shining in the 
light of the westering sun ; and as we walked, I saw 
that my companion had for the moment forgotten his 
uncle’s somewhat unfeeling welcome. 

Mr. Edgcumbe has a boat,” I said ; we could 
get it out of the boat-house, and have a row before 
dinner, I dare say.” 

He did not reply, but there was an eager look on 
his face, as though he saw something which I did 
not. 


UNCLE AND NEPHEW. 


17 


“Didn’t you hear a splashing and a cry?” he 
said, as he quickened his steps. 

“ It ’s the swan, I expect.” 

“No, it’s not; listen.” 

Yes, there was no doubt a cry, and it seemed to 
come from the neighborhood of the lake. 

He started off like a deer. I saw now what his 
light, springy step meant. Stephen Edgcumbe had 
in him the makings of an athlete. Eun as fast as I 
might, he outran me easily ; and when 1 reached tlie 
lake side, I found that he had divested himself of his 
coat, and seemed about to plunge into the water. 

“ What ’s the matter ? ” I asked, panting. 

“Don’t you see?” and he pointed towards the 
centre of the lake, where some one was struggling. 

“ Help!” 

The cry came from a bather, for such I judged him 
to be. 

Stephen, without hesitating another second, plunged 
into the lake and swam rapidly. 

“ Be careful ; the current is strong in the middle,” 
I shouted; “the bed of the river is there.” 

I do not know whether he heard me or not, but he 
made straight for the man who had shouted for help, 
and in a few minutes reached him. Even at that 
moment of anxiety I could not help admiring his 
courage and his strength; neither could I help won- 
dering at the fact that we should be led to the lake 
just at this time. As I remember, too, the influence 
which this incident had on Stephen Edgcumbe’s 
later life, I wonder still more. It seems to me now 
the first link in the chain of events and influences 
which led me to write this story. 

I saw exactly how matters stood. The bather, not 
knowing the nature of the lake, had got out into the 
middle, where the river ran, and, being a weak swim- 
mer, was unable to get out of the current. 

2 


18 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


Evidently Stephen knew what to do. He warily 
avoided the danger of allowing the young man — Tor 
I saw that he was a young man — to get hold of 
him, but, instead, gripped him firmly with his left 
hand and then struck out for the shore. 

When they arrived, I saw that Stephen, although 
panting, was by no means exhausted ; but the other 
was limp, and almost lifeless. To all appearances 
he must have been struggling a long while, and 
thus had spent all his strength. He recovered in 
a few minutes, however, and was soon able to 
talk. 

“ I was nearly done for,” he said. “ The truth is, 
I ought not to have come alone. I’ve only just 
begun to learn to swim, and I liad no knowledge of 
the lake at all.” 

I saw that he was about twenty years of age, but 
was not so tall or so strong as Stephen, and there 
was an effeminate look about his face which was 
not pleasant. 

“ My clothes are in the boat-house yonder,” he 
continued. “ I should be glad of them.” 

I ran to the house in question, and brought them 
to ]iim. 

“ You are sure you are better ? ” I heard Stephen 
say. “ You won’t let me go with you to — to 
your home?” 

“ Oh, no, I ’ll be all right ; I was simply pumped 
out. It was lucky you came by just then. I doubt 
if I’d ever got out.” 

“How did you think of coming here to bathe?” 
I asked. 

“ Oh, Colonel Tempest, at whose house I ’m stay- 
ing, has a — a perpetual permission to come on these 
grounds. Mr. Edgcumbe is glad to — to, in fact the 
two families are friendly.” 

“I see.” 


UNCLE AND NEPHEW. 


19 


He did not seem at all troubled as to Stephen’s 
condition, but was evidently anxious to put on liis 
clothes quickly ; neither did he seem to realize the 
peril from which he had been saved. When he was 
dressed, he said, — 

“ I must be careful about bathing there again. I ’m 
a — a — much obliged to you for your kindness. By 
Jove ! I wish I could swim like you.” 

He nodded to us both, and walked away in the 
direction of “ Bloom fields,” where I knew Colonel 
Tempest, a very proud aristocrat, lived. As for 
Stephen and me, we hurried back to the house as fast 
as we were able, neither of us speaking for some time. 
For my own part, I could not help being impressed 
with the fact that but for Stephen’s timely arrival the 
young man would have been drowned, nor could I 
help thinking how coolly he .regarded the benefit 
received. If Stephen had saved a dog upon whom he 
placed little value, instead of the stranger’s life, he 
could scarcely have been less fervent in liis thanks. 

“ You must be wet and uncomfortable, Stephen ?” 

“Yes, just a bit; but it’s a good thing we went 
there. I don’t mind the wetting.” 

“ He did n’t seem over-thankful.” 

“ He did n’t, did he ? ” 

Arrived at the Hall, Stephen was shown to his 
room, where, having changed his clothes, he returned 
to the dining-room just in time for dinner. 

“ You ’ve begun well, I hear,” said Luke Edgcumbe, 
as he entered the room. 

“ How, uncle ? ” 

“ Stimms tells me you have just returned from tne 
park as wet as a drowned rat, and your feet and legs 
coated with mud. Surely that ’s a good beginning ! ” 

Stephen was silent, but his face flushed while I 
told Mr. Edgcumbe what had happened. 

His eyes softened a little, 1 thought, as I told of 


20 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


his nephew’s brave deed, but the cynical smile still 
distorted his mouth. 

“ What in the world led you to do that ? ” he 
asked. 

“ I don’t know,” replied Stephen. I forgot what 
I was doing until I got him out.” 

“Well, you’ll be cracked up as a hero to-morrow, 
if that ’s what you want. Fancy, it ’ll be a nice thing 
in the local paper : ^ Gallant rescue from drowning ! 
Heroism of the nephew of Luke Edgcumbe, Esq. ! ’ I 
begin to feel elated ; ” and he laughed in a bitter sort 
of way. 

“Was it heroism?” asked Stephen. “I never 
thought of it that way.” 

“ISTonsense !” said his uncle; “but who was the 
fellow, by the way ? ” 

I told him what had been told us. 

“ Phew ! ” said Luke Edgcumbe, “ that puppy, eh ? 
Well, your effort w^as scarcely worth while, Stephen. 
The world would have been none the poorer if he ’d 
been drowned. But there, you ’ve saved me the 
bother of a coroner’s inquest, and all that kind of 
thing, anyhow.” 

“ He said you knew Colonel Tempest,” said Stephen, 
looking at his uncle. 

“Yes, I know him, and he knows me. Colonel 
Tempest is an aristocrat, poor and proud. The chap 
you pulled out of the water is a distant relation. He, 
I hear, is pretty well off ; that ’s why Tempest allows 
him there, I suppose. He also is proud, and a bit of 
a fool. You have n’t saved a future Prime Minister, 
I can assure you, my boy.” 

“ Still, I ’m glad I did save him.” 

“ Very likely you’ll be sorry some day.” 

“ Why ? ” 

Luke Edgcumbe laughed bitterly. 

“ I have n’t done many good turns in my day,” 


UNCLE AND NEPHEW. 


21 


he said. “You see, I don’t pose as a philanthro- 
pist ; but those I have done, I ’ve been sorry for 
afterwards.” 

Stephen looked at him wonderingly. 

“ I ’m not such an old man yet,” said Luke Edg- 
cumbe, “ but I ’ve been knocked from pillar to post a 
go'od bit, and I ’ve been obliged to fight for my hand, 
or you ’d have had no uncle. And I ’ve found out 
this : if you do a man a good turn, he always has a 
grudge against you, and will serve you out in after 
years. The old Jews were wrong. People don’t give 
evil for evil, they give evil for good; and it’s always 
well to remember it.” 

He spoke half banteringly, half earnestly. I had 
heard that Squire Edgcumbe had very strange views 
about men and things ; but as I had never heard him 
talk much before, I was unprepared for such senti- 
ments. Being but a lad, however, I did not alto- 
gether realize the purport of his words. 

“ But there,” he went on, “ I must n’t bother you 
with this kind of thing. You ’ll find out the truth of 
what I say before many years are over; and when 
you get to be my age, you won’t feel so heroic about 
saving such a fellow as that.” 

“ Why,” cried Stephen, his eyes flashing half with 
excitement, half with wonder, “ I should never have 
forgiven myself if I had n’t done my best to get him 
out, whoever he ’d been.” 

Youth will have its illusions, I suppose,” said the 
older man. “ Each boy has his dreams, but they are 
only dreams. Well, I had them, and I quickly lost 
them. My advice to you is this : mind your own 
hand, don’t be rash in throwing away your service, 
never expect gratitude for what you do, and remem- 
ber that at bottom ninety-nine people out of a hun- 
dred will do you a bad turn if thereby they can do 
themselves a good one.” 


22 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


I hardly knew whether he spoke in jest or in earn- 
est, neither did I really understand him : and I 
noticed that Stephen had a puzzled look on his face ; 
but the conversation turned on other subjects, and 
when we went to bed that night he had seemingly 
forgotten what his uncle had said. 


DREAMS AND VISIONS. 


23 


CHAPTER HI. 


DREAMS AND VISIONS. 


The dreams of life are the promises of the future. 

Lord Rosebery. 

HE next morning, when we came down to break- 



1 fast, Luke Edgcumbe threw a note to his 
nephew. 

“ There,” he said, with a laugh, “ that came from 
Bloomfields this morning. You see what a hero you 
are already. I wonder what idea the old Colonel has 
in his mind ? ” 

I saw Stephen’s face flush as he read the letter, not 
altogether with pleasure, although there was an ele- 
ment of pleasure in it. 

“ Well, what do you say ? ” said Luke Edgcumbe. 

“It is very flattering of Colonel Tempest,” he 
replied. “ I should like to go very much, but I can- 
not consent to go to be thanked. It would seem like 
— like — being a cad.” 

His uncle looked at him steadily. Evidently he 
was trying to read Stephen’s motives and thoughts, 
and was a bit puzzled. 

“ It may be best for you to go,” he said at length ; 
“ and yet I don’t know. You are such a Simple 
Simon, you’ll believe all they say to you.” 

“ Believe all they ’ll say to me, uncle ? ” 

“Yes.” Then lie continued, with a hard laugh: 
“ The truth is, my lad — and you may as well know 


24 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


it at once — that in the world people have a selfish 
motive in what they do. Keep that clear before 
your mind, and regulate your conduct by it, and you 
will not be ‘Jewed;’ but if you don’t, if you trust 
people, you’ll be sorry in the long run.” 

It was interesting to watch the two faces as the 
older man spoke. Stephen looked puzzled, and 
seemed to doubt his uncle’s words ; while Luke Edg- 
cumbe had that sour, bitter expression which belongs 
to disappointed men. And yet he made an impres- 
sion on' me. He spoke like one wLo knew; for 
although I felt the hard coarseness of his nature, I 
could not help seeing that he was one who had tested 
men and things. A man ruled by pounds, shillings, 
and pence he might be, yet I knew instinctively that 
every statement he made he could substantiate by 
facts. 

Looking back over the past now, I recognize^ and 
can understand, what I only dimly felt then ; and if I 
dwell on this part of my friend’s life, it is only because 
I feel that any history of his career would be incom- 
plete which did not at least indicate the influence at 
work at this period. Still, it is not for me to write a 
polemic, but a story ; at the same time I would like 
my readers to remember that the apparently unevent- 
ful and uninteresting periods of life are not the least 
important. There is but little stir or excitement 
wlien the sower goes forth with his bag of seed, yet 
he holds in his hands tlie germs of the liarvest, with 
all its beauty and joy. School-hours are often dull 
and monotonous, yet school-hours must not be disre- 
garded in studying the history of life. 

“ What do you mean ? ” asked Stephen. 

“ J ust that, lad,” was the reply. “ I do not warn 
you against Colonel Tempest in particular, but against 
tlie world in general. I know your father did not 
believe in this ; well so much the worse for him and 


DREAMS AND VISIONS. 


25 


you. He simply killed himself for those shop- 
keepers and butchers ; he tried to help the miserable, 
gossiping old women who came to hear him. With 
what result ? He who is now in his grave ought to 
be well and strong, and as much as life can be 
enjoyed, which is very little, he ought to he enjoying 
it ; while his only son, who ought to be independent 
of the world, is left uncared for. What do all those 
dear people do? Cry at his graveside, and vote a 
headstone, and then look out for a new pastor, — dear 
people ! ” 

I saw Stephen’s lip tremble, and his chin be- 
come rigid ; evidently this was a shot which struck 
home. 

“ Your father was one of the few who trusted peo- 
ple, and was what the world calls unselfish. What ’s 
the end of it ? A tombstone, and a meeting to dis- 
cuss the merits of the next man whom they intend to 
criticise, abuse, and kill, all to satisfy their love for 
religion. But, there, I did n’t mean to talk that way 
this morning. You see Colonel Tempest’s letter. 
He is doing you a great honor, for he ’s a member of 
the aristocracy, and what money he has is free, as 
much as money can be, from the pollution of trade. 
Thus you see that a visit to his house is a great thing. 
He will thank you in grandiloquent terms for saving 
his visitor, Mr. Ealph Hussey, from drowning, and you 
will be lionized generally ; what more can you want ? 
You see, Daniel Eoberts is asked with you, so that 
he can come in for a share of praise.” 

would rather not go,” said Stephen, quietly. 
“ I don’t want to be thanked or lionized.” 

“ Still, I hope you will go,” said his uncle, in a 
different tone ; “ indeed, I wish you to go. At pres- 
ent I don’t desire to offend Colonel Tempest, although 
I see through him. It is true, the world is full of 
cant and lies ; but we are in the world, and so must 


26 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


keep up the farce. Come, now, I ’ll write that you 
will go.” 

I would rather not, uncle.” 

^^But I wish you. There, Daniel Eoberts, read 
that letter, and see if you don ’t agree with me.” 

I took the letter and read it. It ran as follows : 

My dear Edgcumbe, — Mr. Ealph Hussey, who, as 
you know, is a visitor and distant relative of mine, has 
told me of his danger when bathing in your lake yes- 
terday, and of the gallant way in which a young gentleman, 
who, I have been given to understand, is your nephew, 
came to his rescue. I meant to have come over and 
thanked him personally this morning; but our young peo- 
ple are having a social gathering this afternoon, and will 
not spare me. It is the general wish, however, that your 
nephew and his friend join them in their afternoon festivi- 
ties, and then we can thank him for his heroism. For- 
give this unconventional note, and show your forgiveness 
by sending your young people without fail. I know you 
are generally busy ; but if you have an hour to spare, I 
shall be glad if you will come with them. We can get 
away somewhere together, and have a bottle of wine and 
a cigar. 

Very kind regards, as ever, 

Eeginald Tempest. 

Bloomfields, July \hth, 18 — . 

Inexperienced as I was, I felt the letter to be 
rather strange ; but I said nothing, not knowing what 
Stephen’s wishes might be. At the same time, I 
must confess to a very -strong desire to go. No lad 
of seventeen is indifferent to a gathering of young 
people"; and although I was a bit reserved, I enjoyed 
the pleasures of life as much as any one. 

“ Well, what do you think ? ” asked Luke Edgcumbe. 

I should like to go very much,” I said. 

Stephen looked at me, I thought, reproachfully; 
then he said, — 


DREAMS AND VISIONS. 


27 


‘'But, uncle, I could not go to be thanked. If 
they would say nothing about yesterday, I should be 
glad to go ; but I could not bear people coming and 
saying all sorts of foolish things, simply because I 
did what nobody could help doing.” 

Again a look of suspicion flashed across Luke 
Edgcumbe’s face, but he said musingly, — 

“ Very well, I have to go to Bloornfields this morn- 
ing ; I will tell Colonel Tempest what you said. 
No doubt he ’ll be willing to say nothing, so we may 
regard that as settled.” 

Soon after this, breakfast concluded, and Luke 
Edgcumbe went into the library, while Stephen and 
I strolled out into the park, and made our way 
towards the woods that lay in the distance. 

“ That ’s fine, — going to Bloornfields,” I said. 

" Is it ? ” he replied. “ Well, I may enjoy it after 
a bit ; but at present I don’t feel much inclined 
that way. I can’t help feeling lonely and sad some- 
times. You see, I have n’t anybody now who really 
cares about me. I don’t think Uncle Luke hardly 
knew of my existence until a week or two ago, and it 
seems to me that he regards me as an incumbrance of 
whom he would gladly be rid ; and I know nothing 
of my mother’s relations. So you see how things are.” 

“ But, Stephen — ” 

" Yes, I know I ’m a bit mean to talk like this, but 
it slipped out; and all that Uncle Luke said about 
the badness of people makes me feel all wrong. But 
there, I ’ll try and manage somehow.” 

" I don’t like cant, Stephen,” I said. 

"No, Dan, I don’t believe you do.” 

" But I like you real well, Stephen ; I wish you 
liked me as well.” 

I can remember now how his fine eyes flashed as 
I spoke, and how his face expressed the fact that my- 
words had touched him. After all, we were both 


28 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


boys, and everything then was very young and beau- 
tiful to us. For a time we forgot Luke Edgcumbe’s 
cynicism, and I think Stephen forgot his loneliness. 

“ Do you really like me, old chap ? ” he said. 

“ I do really,” I said ; and I think my voice trem- 
bled a little. 

And I like you real well, although we only met 
yesterday. You are not a flashy fellow, but I took 
to you in a minute. I was afraid you would not 
care for me, and 1 ’m a bit sad, — I can’t help it, you 
know ; you would if your dad — died. My dad was 
— was everything to me.” 

He dashed the tears from his eyes in an impatient 
way, and then he went on : — 

“ But if you like me — ” 

“Well be friends,” I said. 

He looked at me straight in the eyes without speak- 
ing, then, catching my arm, walked by my side in 
silence ; but I noticed with joy that a brighter, 
gladder look than I had seen before came into his 
eyes ; and soon after he began to talk in a boyish 
way. 

“ It ’s not pleasant to be dependent on one’s uncle, 
is it ? ” he asked. 

“ Ho, I should not think so.” 

“ It ’s a hard nut to ci'ack, and I would not stay 
with him but for my father’s wish ; I cannot help 
seeing that he regards me as a bore.” 

I don’t think so,” I replied; “he likes you as 
much as he can like anybody.” 

“ He ’s a curious way of showing it, then.” 

“Is n’t that because he ’s rather curious ? I have a 
feeling that you’ll find out that he means all right.” 

“ Anyhow, I mean to pay him for everything I get 
from him. I am going to take a note of all he pays 
for me, — clothes, ^college fees, railway journeys, and 
all that sort of thing ; then, when it ’s all over, I ’m 


DREAMS AND VISIONS. 


29 


just going to work like a galley-slave to pay him 
back, — every penny.” 

“ What are you going to do or be ?” 

“Well, I should like to be what my dad was; but 
I can’t earn money to pay him that way, — parsons 
are generally poor. I might be a lawyer ; ” and he 
threw back his head proudly. “ Then I ’d become a 
great advocate, and, who knows ? become Solicitor- 
General some time. Or I might be a doctor, and 
discover some secret of life, like Harvey. But I ’d 
rather be an author, like Charles Dickens or Thack- 
eray. I have n’t decided yet, but I ’m going to work 
like mad. I ’ll pay off Uncle Luke first, and then 
I ’ll have a free hand to do what I want.” 

“ But I ’ve heard it ’s a hard thing to get on,” I 
said, rather dubiously. 

“ But I ’m going to do it,” he replied confidently. 
“I’m just going to let people know what a chap who 
has grit in him can do. And I ’m going to do it 
without any shady tricks. Bless you, Dan, I ’ll do 
it ! Won’t we have jolly times in those days, — say, 
what are you going to do ? ” 

“ I fancy I ’m to be a doctor,” I said. “ I hardly 
know, but I ’m always dreaming about it.” 

“ A great doctor,” he saiil eagerly, “ one to whom 
people come with the most mysterious diseases. I 
tell you, Dan, in those days we ’ll get all the young- 
chaps together, and we’ll give them a helping hand. 
We ’ll pick up the poor beggars who lie in the ditch, 
and help ’ em on.” 

He forgot all his sorrows in his dreams of the 
future; his lips parted as if in expectancy, his 
nostrils quivered with excitement, and his face 
flushed. 

“Hurrah for the time that is to be!” he cried 
gayly, throwing his hat into the air. “ Oh, we ’ll do 
it, Dan ; we ’ll do it 1 ” 


80 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“And where are we going to live?” I asked, 
catching his spirit. 

“Oh! in London; there’s no place like London. 
Everybody goes there, — you see, it ’s the great centre. 
I ’ve only been once ; I went a year ago with father. 
Oh, it is a place, is London. We’ll have a house 
close to Hyde Park, — overlooking it, in fact, — and 
we shall be close to everything. Yes, London ’s the 
place.” 

“ And shall we be married ? ” 

“ Yes, oh, yes. I shall meet a beautiful lady some 
day. She may be poor, but she ’ll be a lady, kind 
and gentle. And she ’ll be a friend to poor people, 
and considerate of everybody ; but she will love me 
supremely, and I — I shall love her above everybody.” 

“Yes,” I laughed; “and what will she be like? 
What color will her hair be, and her eyes ? Will 
she be English, or French, or Spanish?” 

He laughed gleefully for a minute ; then, in a more 
serious tone, showing that he was more in earnest 
than in jest, he said, — 

“ She ’ll be English, I think ; but I don’t know 
what color her hair and eyes will be, — it will not 
matter, you see — for — for I shall love her so. And 
you, Dan — you — are you going to get married ? ” 

I shook my head dubiously, half in jest, half in 
earnest. 

“ I don’t know,” I said ; “ perhaps I shall fall in 
love with your beautiful lady.” 

“No, that will nevef do. It can’t 'be. You see, 
she will be created for me, and I for her. Perhaps 
we may be poor when we are first wed, — I don’t know; 
but I shall have paid Uncle Luke, and then she will 
help me. I shall get a bit down' sometimes, for I 
can’t help it, and then she’ll cheer me. When I 
was in London, I went to the. Academy, and I saw 
a picture which was n’t talked about, but which I 


DREAMS AND VISIONS. 


31 


liked a great deal. It was about a young author or 
artist, I forget which, whose work had been refused, 
and he was just giving up, you know ; but his wife 
was by his side cheering him on. Perhaps it’ll be 
like that with me. I don’t think it will, for I’m 
going to get on at first ; but that ’s what my beauti- 
ful lady would do, if it were so. And I shall work 
for her — like — like anything, and we shall be 
happy, right happy all the way along.” 

And where does this beautiful lady live ? Have 
you seen her yet ? ” 

“Ho, not yet, and I don’t know where she lives; 
but I shall see her some time, — oh, I shall see her 
right enough. Of course, other fellows will want 
her ; but it will not matter, as soon as I come they ’ll 
have the ^ right about face.’ You see, she ’ll be mine 
— mine ! ” 


“ There ’s nothing half so sweet in life 
As love ^s young dream,’^ 

says the poet ; and as I remember Stephen Edgcumbe, 
who had barely entered on the threshold of manhood, 
telling me, not only of his dream of love that was to 
be, but his dream of the future generally, tears come 
into my eyes. But I must not say why now. If I 
tell his story faithfully, and if you, reader, have the 
patience to follow me to the end, I think you will 
understand my feelings. 

“ But I don’t want to be selfish,” he went on ; “I 
want to make things better. I am going to destroy a 
lot of abuses that exist now. Charles Dickens, you 
know, removed or caused to be removed, a lot of evils. 
That ’s what I ’m going to do. If I go into Parlia- 
ment, I ’m going to be the poor man’s friend ; if I ’m 
a doctor, I shall fight against disease, against bad 
dwellings and unsanitary conditions ; if I ’m a law- 
yer, I shall fight against roguery; if a merchant, I 


32 


ALL MEN ARE LLARS. 


shall never rest until I ’ve purified commercial moral- 
ity ; and if I am an author, I shall investigate all 
these things, and write about them. You ’ll see my 
books will sell like mad, and public opinion will be 
aroused. Oh, you’ll see;” and he strode along as 
though he had already conquered the evils of life. 

“That’s a big programme,” I said cautiously; 
“ scores of men have attempted these things, and they 
say it is impossible.” 

“ There ’s no such thing as impossibility,” he cried. 
“ Surely if Napoleon could conquer so much from 
purely selfish motives, an honest, unselfish man can 
do more. Oh, bless you, the people will gather 
around me when I begin. Dad always said I must 
be a reformer, because I was so impatient of injustice, 
and because I was such an enthusiast. I shall be 
glad to go to college, because one must learn ; nobody 
can help the people without knowledge, and so I must 
work hard.” 

“Well, we shall see, Steve,” I said, growing more 
familiar with him ; “ and if you become a modern 
Hercules, you will find none so glad as I.” 

“ And I ’m going to be, Dan. It was my dad’s 
wish, and I would n’t disappoint dad for anything.” 

“ But you remember Hercules career, Steve. You 
remember when he was eighteen he met Pleasure and 
Virtue, each of whom wooed him, but he chose 
Virtue.” 

“ Yes, I remember, Dan ; and I remember, too, the 
first great labor that was imposed upon him by his 
rival, which, as you know, was to kill the lion that 
mortal weapons could not harm. And Hercules 
killed the lion with his own hands, and afterwards 
wore the lion’s skin as armor. There ’s a meaning in 
that, isn’t tiiere ? Oh, you’ll see, Dan, I’ll be a 
Hercules ; and you — what will you be ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” I said dubiously ; “I’m afraid I 


DREAMS AND VISIONS. 


33 


have n’t pluck enough for a Hercules. He had to go 
through so much.” 

“ ‘ He who thinks he can, can,’ ” he cried gayly. 

And thus we talked of our future, as boys in a 
thousand ways have talked, and will talk, as long as 
boys continue to be boys. Perhaps when the train- 
ing and spirit of our age have destroyed boyhood and 
girlhood, and caused children to become men and 
women without passing through that gladsome period, 
the dreams, hopes, ideals, and romances of life will go 
by the board. But while young people are allowed 
to be natural, the world will always be young and 
hopeful, fond and foolish. 

At any rate, as Stephen Edgcumbe and I roamed 
the countryside that morning, ran races, jumped 
ditches, and caught the spirit of “ God’s day,” nothing 
seemed impossible to us. Life was full of joy, full of 
promise. The mystery of the future only added to 
its interest and joy, the hills of difficulty were all to 
be climbed, the dragons of life were all to be killed, 
and we, by and by, were to dwell in that land of 
poetry, song, and love. 

Who is right, — the hopeful boy, to whom life is 
made beautiful by a thousand rosy hues, or the hope- 
less cynic, who says the world is all black, and that 
life’s promises only exist to mock us ? 

That afternoon Stephen and I started for Bloom- 
fields, the house of Colonel Tempest. 


3 


34 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


CHAPTEE IV. 
love’s young dream. 


“There ’s nothing half so sweet in life 
As love’s young dream.” 


B LOOMEIELDS lay two miles farther away from 
my home than Edgcumbe Hall ; it was also sit- 
uated in another parish, and was not in any way 
associated with the little town of Witney. It was 
because of this, I suppose, that I knew but little 
of Colonel Tempest or his surroundings. I had 
heard that the retired military officer was by no 
means rich, but very proud. The Tempest family 
was ancient and highly connected ; the Colonel was a 
rigid Tory ; he was also very particular about his asso- 
ciates, and, while affable with his equals, he treated 
those whom he regarded as of inferior social standing 
with a great deal of hauteur. In fact, I quite under- 
stood Luke Edgcumbe’s remark, that only self-inter- 
est made the two families friendly. I knew, too, 
that the great jam manufacturer, although openly 
scornful of caste and family history, was eager for a 
place among the county families, and I knew that 
only his reputed wealth gave him the position he 
coveted. 

However, these things did not trouble us as we 
made our way to the Colonel’s villa. We found 
plenty to talk about, — boys always do, — and were 


LOVERS YOUNG DREAM. 


35 


not at all impressed with the idea of visiting a 
man who prided himself so much on his name and 
lineage. 

As we drew near to the house, we heard shouts of 
merriment ; and finally, when we came to the closely 
shaved lawn, we saw about a score of young people, 
who seemed to be about as happy and gay as young 
people can be. 

Colonel Tempest met us, and greeted us with 
brusque heartiness; especially was he affable with 
Stephen, who soon became a general favorite. This 
was scarcely to be wondered at, for Stephen was a 
marked lad wherever he went. A bright, handsome 
fellow, susceptible to the influences which sur- 
rounded him, clever at all sorts of games, and with 
a ready flow of wit and humor, no one could help 
liking him or admiring him. 

Shortly after our arrival, Colonel Tempest, forget- 
ful, I suppose, that I sat close beside him, entered 
into conversation with a middle-aged lady. 

“Yes,” I heard him say, “he’s the nephew of 
Edgcumbe, the jam man. His father was a parson, 
a Dissenting parson, I believe.” 

“ Never ; why, he might have been a direct 
descendant from William the Conqueror.” 

“ Such is the case, however ; but his mother was a 
Temple of Elm Manor. There was a terrible row, I 
suppose ; but she would marry Edgcumbe. She died 
when this lad was born. The Edgcumbes are a 
respectable family, you know, — Quakers, I believe, 
who became Independents, and were on visiting 
terms with some very decent people. Some of these 
Independents are in several of the counties.” 

“ But the son of a Dissenting minister, Eeginald ! ” 

“We must be civil, Maria. He saved Ealph Hus- 
sey from drowning yesterday, and most likely he ’ll 
have Luke’s quarter of a million. It ’s jam money, it 


36 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


is true, but it ’s good, for all that. Money ’s money 
anywhere.” 

“ Yes,” the lady sighed, " and he is handsome too ; 
he ’d be taken for an aristocrat anywhere.” 

“ Temple blood, my dear. Temple blood,” said the 
Colonel, grandly. He was christened Stephen Tem- 
ple : good name, you know ; sound well anywhere, — 
Stephen Temple Edgcumbe. Where ’s Isabella ? ” 

“ She ’s playing tennis with him. Look, they are 
matched against Ealph Hussey and Laura. He plays 
well, does n’t he ? I thought Dissenters did n’t 
know about such games.” 

“ Many of them are getting quite respectable, — 
going into Parliament and that kind of thing. You 
see, the Universities are open to them, — not that I 
agree with it, but we must take things as they are. 
There, young Edgcumbe and Isabella have won ! 
They look well, don’t they ? ” 

The Colonel, who was of the usual type of retired 
military men, — thick gray moustache, closely cropped 
hair, a tall straight form, and a loud voice, — moved 
away, leaving me to watch the players. 

Isabella Tempest, who was Stephen’s partner in 
the game, was about eighteen, but looked older, and 
promised to be one of the beauties of the county. 
Physically, she was as much developed as most girls 
of two or three and twenty, and gave promise to 
become stout as she grew older. At that time, how- 
ever, she seemed a full-blown young lady a little 
before her time, but was nevertheless very attractive. 
She had large, languishing brown eyes, red lips, a 
dimpled chin, and clear complexion. Her neck, 
which was bare, was long and white. She was tall, 
too, — quite as tall as the average man ; but she 
showed no awkwardness, and her finely moulded figure 
gave no suggestion of the idea that she was overgrown. 

Of the other members of the gathering I remember 


LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 


37 


nothing worth mentioning, save that young Hussey 
looked jealously towards Stephen, and did not regard 
him with a great deal of favor. 

As the afternoon wore away, the young people 
became more friendly with me, and by and by I 
found myself talking with Isabella Tempest. She 
and Stephen liad challenged any two in the party at 
tennis, and had in every case won easily. As a 
consequence, she was in high spirits, and disposed 
to be communicative. 

“ I do think your friend is just splendid,” she said 
to me, “ perfectly splendid.” 

I agreed with her very warmly. 

“ So unconventional, too. He does n’t like to hear 
about saving Ealph Hussey yesterday, and blushed 
when I mentioned it ; but he is just fine.” 

There was a certain gush about her way of talk- 
ing that I scarcely liked ; but she was praising my 
friend, and so I became drawn towards her. Besides, 
she was very handsome; and as in the spring-time 
of her life, and clothed in light summer attire, she 
walked by my side, I, lad that I was, could not help 
being fascinated. 

“He has only just come to his uncle’s?” she 
went on. 

“ Only yesterday.” 

“ And he 's staying at Edgcurabe Hall ? ” 

“ That will be his home. He ’s going to Cambridge, 
I expect, at the end of the vacation.” 

“Oh!” 

“ Stephen will study hard,” I went on. “ I expect 
he will be a barrister or doctor.” 

“ But there will be no need for him to have a pro- 
fession ? ” she said interrogatively. “ He will — that 
is — I thought ” and she stammered — awk- 

wardly, I thought. 

‘‘ Oh ! ” I said, “ Stephen is an independent fellow. 


88 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


and means to work for himself. He’ll be a great 
man some day.” 

She did not seem to care about this, and I saw that 
she soon began to grow tired of my company. But, 
then, I was nobody ; and my father, although re- 
spected and fairly w'ell to-do, was not regarded as of 
great importance. Besides, I could not somehow 
catch the spirit of this girl; her world, I felt, was 
different from mine, our tastes and feelings were not 
in common. I was not sorry, therefore, wlien I 
heard the sound of a gong which summoned us to a 
repast that was spread for us on the lawn. 

We were very merry, I remember. The Colonel, 
and the lady with whom I heard him talking, and 
who was introduced to me as his sister, sat with us ; 
and the Colonel told us stories of his adventures in 
India, and laughed at his own jokes with such hearti- 
ness that we were led to laugh too. 

I could not help seeing, however, that although 
Stephen was much in favor with almost every one, 
young Hussey regarded him with evident dislike. It 
did not require much penetration to see that he was 
much enamoured with Isabella Tempest, while she, 
to all appearance, preferred Stephen’s society to his. 
I saw, too, that when Stephen happened to venture a 
remark, Hussey tried to turn it into ridicule. But 
my friend seemed to dwell in enchantment that after- 
noon ; he was not in the slightest degree disturbed, 
and, boy-like, forgot his troubles amidst his pleasant 
surroundings. 

By and by the time came for us to go home, and the 
Colonel bade us good-night in his usual pompous way. 

“ I hope we shall see you again, Stephen Temple,” 
he said grandly. “ Your uncle and I know each 
other, and I was well acquainted with some of your 
mother’s family years ago. That was before you 
were born ! — hem ! ” 


LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 


39 


“ Perhaps we sliall see you on Sunday,” suggested 
the Colonel’s sister. “ Your uncle comes to our 
church sometimes.” 

“ But Edgcumbe is a Dissenter,” said young Hus- 
sey ; “ you see, his father was a Dissenting parson, 
and naturally liis son would go to the six o’clock 
prayer-rneeting at the little Bethel at Witney. They 
are Primitive Methodists, and they groan splendidly.” 

I saw tliat this remark hurt Stephen ; anything that 
slightingly referred to his father aroused him imme- 
diately. Still, he kept his temper, and answered 
pleasantly, — 

“ Prayer-meetings should always he attended by 
those who need them most, Mr. Hussey. I should 
fancy you are contemplating such an exercise.” 

“ But I hear you are too religious to go to church,” 
said Hussey, with a sneer. “All you Dissenters 
are.” 

“That’ll do, Hussey,” said the Colonel, seeing the 
color rise to Stephen’s face ; then he went on grandly, 
“ JSTo doubt Stephen will go to church with his uncle 
now. I say nothing against Dissenters. No doubt 
that that some of them are very respectable per- 
sons; but, then, it’s not the — the proper thing of 
course.” 

“ The proper thing ? ” said Stephen, in a question- 
ing tone. 

“ No ; that is — nobody of note goes to these places. 
None of the old families — that is, of the real old 
families. I ’m very broad myself, and make it a point 
to be civil to Dissenters, for, as I said, some of them 
are quite respectable people. But when you come 
to the right thing to do, of course, there ’s no question 
about it. Ancient Church — established by law — 
bishops, priests, and deacons — laying on of hands — 
Apostolical succession, and all that ; of course — well, 
nobody who is anybody doubts it. Many decent 


40 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


people Dissenters — but quite deluded, and mostly of 
the lower orders.” 

I saw that Stephen kept from speaking with diffi- 
culty, and I could not help feeling that this sort of 
talk was scarcely polite ; neither would 1 have related 
it, were it not among the formative influences in my 
friend’s life. 

‘‘I believe in religion,” went on the Colonel, “and 
I ’m against all these rascals that would go in for de- 
stroying it; but I must have the right thing you 
know, for it ’s only the right thing that 11 keep people 
in their places. But you ’ll see this in time ; ” and 
the Colonel nodded his head meaningly towards my 
friend. 

I think Stephen would have spoken, but Isabella 
Tempest whispered something in his ear, and so the 
conversation came to an end, and we took our leave. 

For the first five minutes after we left Bloomfields, 
Stephen did not speak ; he seemed to be thinking of 
what had been said to him : but presently he began 
to talk. 

“We’ve had a jolly time, Daniel.” 

“ I ’m glad you have, Stephen.” 

“ Yes, the Colonel is a jolly old boy, is n’t he ? As 
for Isabel, is n’t — she just — just handsome?” 

“ Very,” I said. 

“ She called me Steve, and I called her Bell,” he 
said, with a laugh. “ Ay, and did n’t w^e beat them 
at tennis ! ” 

“Is she the beautiful lady you were telling me 
about this morning ? ” I said. 

He laughed again, and then did n’t speak for a few 
minutes. 

“ Good-evenin’, gents.” 

We turned, and saw a very talkative, precocious 
youth named Bill Best. 

“ Good-evening.” 


LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 


41 


“ I work up to -Bloomfields,” lie explained. “ I was 
there to-day when you was knackin’ the balls about. 
I ’ve bird there now three year.” 

“ You have a good place, I suppose ? ” I said, for 
want of something better. 

“Oh, middlin’. Plenty ov work, if that’s what 
you want. But th’ oull maaster, he ’s a beauty !” 

“ That will do,” said Stephen, as Best went on to 
discuss his master. “ We do not wish to hear what 
you have to say ; besides, the Colonel would be very 
angry if he heard you.” 

“ I dessay he wud,” was the reply. “ But you 
wudden’ tell him, — gents never do ; and if you did, 
’t would n’t matter so much, ’cause, you see, I ’m off 
to ’Merica next week.” 

“America, eh ! ” 

“ ’Merica ’s the place for money. Th’ oull Col- 
onel is sa poor as a church mouse, for all his pride ; 
and the maidens, too, be jist so bad.” 

“ Would you kindly mind your own business, and 
not talk about your master,” said Stephen, sharply. 

“ Oh, I don’t want to say nothin’ wrong,” said 
Best. “ The Colonel is good to me, — a lot better 
than that Mr. Hussey is ; but the maaster is terrible 
fond of Mr. Hussey, cause he ’s sa religious. I hear 
as ’ow Mr. Hussey ’s goin’ to be a passon. T believe 
a bit in religion myself ; but I doan’t like his religion, 

I doan’t. He ’ve been sayin’ all soarts of nasty 
things ’bout Mr. Edgcumbe ’ere, though he saved 
him from drownin’ yesterday. But I suppose we 
must make ’lowances for you gentry.” 

“ How do you know ? ” said Stephen, eager to 
know about what had been said, yet angry with him- 
self for listening to such a fellow. 

“ Oh, sarvants knows most everything,” he replied. 

“ But, bless you,” he continued, altering his tone as 
though he thought he had said too much, “ I doan’t 


42 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


main nothin’ wrong ! Eich people must ’ave their 
fling, else what ’s the use of bein’ rich ? I ’m off to 
’Merica next Monday, and then when I’m rich I 
sha’n’t be Bill Best no longer, but Mr. Best. Then I 
shall be able to show off like tliQ Colonel, and be 
able to go to church in a carriage, and church-goin’ 
must be a different thing then. Ya see, the Colonel 
is friends with the passon, and that do make oal the 
difference to religion. Good-night, gents. I do live 
up to that cottage where you see the light.” 

Bill Best left us then, and went up the path 
whistling. 

“ Do you think what he said is true ? ” asked 
Stephen when he had gone. 

“ Possibly,” I said ; “ the Colonel does not enjoy a 
very good name. But you must take off a good deal 
from what a fellow like Bill Best says. He ’s very 
fond of talking, and is said to be the greatest gossip 
in the parish.” 

“ Anyhow, Isabella is n’t like that,” he burst out, 
after a little silence; “she’s just fine, she is. I 
shall go to church on Sunday — I shall see her 
there.” 

I could not help laughing. 

“ You need n’t laugh, Dan,” he said, a little bit 
annoyed. “I — I only — ” 

“ All right, Steve ; I meant nothing.” 

“ I mean to work right hard,” he said, as if musing. 

“ I shall make a name and fortune such as any one 
might be proud of — and then — then — ” 

He walked on so rapidly that I found it difficult 
to keep up with him. 

“ Then I shall make her love me.” 

I laughed again ; but a look at his face in the light 
of the summer night checked me. I saw how earn- 
est he was, how deeply he was moved. 

“ I ’m only seventeen,” he went on, “ I know that ; 


LOVERS YOUNG DREAM. 


43 


but I ’m older at seventeen than some people are at 
twenty. Besides, it 11 take me three years to get my 
degree.’' 

I was always rather old-fashioned, and I saw what 
was the matter with my new-found friend. Highly 
sensitive, impressionable, and full of romance, he had 
been fascinated by Isabella Tempest. A boyish love at 
first sight — a foolish fancy, perhaps, — a fond 
dream ; but it was real to him, — as real as his own 
life. 

“ I think God must have sent her to help me in 
my trouble,” he went on. “She is so beautiful, so 
good ! When I told her about dad, and — and — the 
way we parted, the tears came into her eyes, Dan, 
and she looked so kind. Oh ! she ’s not like the 
Colonel, she’s as good as an angel. And she likes 
me, didn’t you see?” 

“ I saw.” 

“ Oh ! it ’s a glad world, is n’t it, in spite of its sor- 
row ? And I ’m going to work, and get on ; and then 
— why, I shall be the happiest fellow in the world.” 

Thus Stephen Edgcumbe first began to dream the 
dream of love. Was it real ? Do these fancies last ? 
That morning he was a boy, with visions afar ; now 
one of them began to take shape. But he was a boy, 
fond and foolish. What of the future? 


44 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


CHAPTEK V. 

THE cynic’s EELIGION. 


They eat and drink,, and scheme and plod, 

They go to church on Sunday ; 

And many are afraid of God, 

And more of Mrs. Grundy. 

Frederick Locker-Lasipson. 

W E did not see Luke Edgcumbe that night ; hut 
the following morning he met us at breakfast. 
‘‘Well, Stephen,” he said, “you look famous to-day. 
I think the air here must agree with you.” 

Stephen did indeed look well and happy. The 
sad, lonely look which possessed his eyes when we 
first met had taken flight, and in its place was an 
expression of eagerness and hope. The fascination of 
a boy’s love had for a moment made him forget his 
sorrow. Not that he was unfeeling, and careless of 
his father’s death; I knew him better than tliat. 
His sorrow was only two or three weeks old, and he 
often had to fight hard against pain and loneliness; 
but he was young, and change of scene, as well as 
new interests, did him good. 

“And so you enjoyed yourselves ?” he continued, 
after watching his nephew’s face closely for a few 
seconds. 

“Famously, uncle,” replied Stephen, his face 
flushing. 

“Ah, well! enjoy yourself while you may. Enjoy- 
ment does n’t last long. You ’ll soon see that plea- 
sure is a plant of short life.” 


THE CYNIC’S RELIGION. 


45 


“No, sir,” replied Stephen, eagerly ; “my life will, 
I hope, be full of pleasure.” 

“ I thought so once, when I was your age. About 
four years afterwards, all that nonsense was knocked, 
out of me. I found out, my lad, as you will find out, 
that youth is full of illusions. Nothing turns out as 
we imagine — nothing. You Ve read stories about 
the Dead Sea fruit, have n’t you ? Well, life is like 
tliat. When you first see it, it looks green, refresh- 
ing, beautiful; that’s how life looks to youngsters. 
You like the Dead Sea fruit, and you find nothing 
but dust and bitterness. That ’s how life is when 
you test it. Nothing is real, everything is mockery. 
You will not believe me, I know ; no lad will believe 
the truth, and perhaps it ’s best you should n’t. The 
painted mask will be torn from the corrupt corpse 
soon enough ; then you’ll know I ’m telling the truth. 
I tell you this that you may not be disappointed 
when your disillusionment comes.” 

As this was not the first time I had heard Luke Edg- 
cunibe speak like this, I began to think more calmly 
about the purport of his words ; but to Stephen they 
were evidently meaningless, at any rate just then. 

“ I feel it a right glad thing to live, uncle,” he 
said; “and if you enjoyed yourself as Daniel and I 
enjoyed ourselves yesterday, you would n’t speak like 
that.” 

“ The time ’ll come when you can’t enjoy your- 
self,” said his uncle. “Now you see things through 
rose-colored glasses, and the future promises all sorts 
of glad things. Well, you’ll find that the promises 
of life are all lies. Lies, my boy, lies.” 

Stephen Edgcumbe looked at his uncle in such a 
way that I knew his sensitive nature was influenced 
by what was said to him, and yet I felt that the 
inherent gladness and hope of his life were fighting 
against his words. 


46 


ATX MEN ARE LIARS. 


“ Yon think I ’m hard and cruel, don’t you ? ” said 
the older man, with a hard laugh ; “ well, I appear so, 
but I ’m not. After all, it ’s best we should see life 
as it is, and without its gay bunting. It ’s as well 
you should know, Stephen, that, cloak it over as we 
may, the world is a miserable sort of a place, and life 
is a miserable affair. There, now, that ’s blasphemy, I 
know, according to the cant of many ; but men are 
beginning to recognize the truth, in spite of parsons 
and humbugs.” 

“ But, uncle, my father never felt like that.” 

“No; your father was one of the dreamers of life, 
and would not see facts. If he had, he ’d have been 
living to-day, and instead of killing himself for a few 
gossips and pious people, who regarded religion as a 
sort of insurance policy against hell, he would have 
seen that the best thing to do was to let people go 
their own way, and mind number one. But there, 
you don’t like this sort of talk, I know. Colonel 
Tempest was very kind to you, I suppose ? ” 

“ Very kind, indeed. A high old Tory, an aristo- 
crat, and a bigoted Churchman, but very kind still.” 

“ He asked you to go to church, I suppose ? ” 

“ Yes. He said you often went of a Sunday 
morning.” 

“ Oh, yes ; I go. I ’m very religious, because — 
well, religion is the thing in these country places. 
I ’m a Churchman, of course.” 

“ But you were brought up a Nonconformist.” 

“ Oh, yes. For years I gave up going to church. 
It did n’t matter when I was in London — religion 
as well as everything else goes by the board there. 
I lay in bed on Sundays mostly ; you see, I worked 
so hard through the rest of the week. But when I 
got down here, and lived in a country house, I found 
that the proper thing was to go to church. I natu- 
rally thought of going to the Ebenezer Independent 


THE CYNIC^S RELIGION. 


47 


chapel, but it would n’t do. Independency is a very 
plebeian thing in this part of the country, and so I do 
the proper thing and drive to church. Bless you, I 
invite Mr. Sweeting, the vicar, here to lunch some- 
times ; I find it pays. But religion, like everything 
else, must be served up properly, or it is regarded 
as spurious by such people as the Colonel.” 

“ But surely. Uncle Luke, you don’t mean that. 
My father has often told me about your boyish days. 
You did n’t think like that then.” 

The older man opened his mouth to reply; but 
he refrained from speaking, he seemed to be in doubt 
about something ; then he said, — 

Well, I shall go to church to-morrow, and you 
may as well go with me ; you wiU see the Colonel 
and his family there. He sings very heartily, does 
Tempest, and repeats the prayers with great fervor. 
It ’s quite a treat to hear him chant, ‘ Lord, have 
mercy upon us, miserable sinners ; ’ he puts so much 
soul into it. You see, he generally has a row with 
some one through the week ; perhaps that accounts 
for it. Besides, being so free to confess his sins, and 
being so fervent in his repentance, he gets absolu- 
tion, and then, no doubt, feels at liberty to have it 
out with the people who won’t knuckle under to 
him through the coming week. Oh, the Colonel 
finds religion is a convenient thing, and respectable 
too. Therefore he ’s down on heretics. If you are 
religious, Stephen, you must belong to the State 
Church. That’s the proper thing; you get Apos- 
tolical succession, absolution, and the whole tiling 
proper there; besides which, anybody that is any- 
body in this neighborhood looks down upon the 
people who go to Ebenezer. And so you had better 
get rid of your prejudices, forget your training, give 
up your Nonconformity, and have a religion that ’s 
respectable.” 


48 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


Stephen did not seem to realize the jeering tone 
of his nncle’s words, but, boy-like, burst out in a 
hot-headed way : — 

“I shall never be ashamed of the principles my 
father held, and shall hold fast to them ; but I don’t 
believe Church people are as you say. Father was 
friendly with the vicar at home, and I was friendly 
with a lot of Church people.” 

“Your father friendly with the vicar, eh? Ah, 
yes ; Nonconformity is strong there, and the vicar 
would find it best; but the Church is everything 
here, my lad. But there, we ’ll say no more about 
it for the time.” 

We saw no more of Luke Edgcumbe that day, and 
Stephen and I liad a long tramp through the fields. 
We did not talk much ; he was evidently thinking 
about his visit to Colonel Tempest’s house the day 
before, for his eyes often wandered in that direction, 
and he blushed scarlet when I mentioned Isabella 
Tempest’s name. 

“ I shall see her to-morrow,” he burst out once, after 
there liad been a silence between us for a long time. 

“ See whom ? ” I asked. 

Then he became confused, and stammered, not 
knowing what to say. 

The next morning we drove very solemnly to St. 
Endellion parish church. I had always been in the 
habit of going to Witney church with my father, and 
so my visit to St. Endellion was a somewhat new 
experience. 

On our way there we heard some one shouting in 
a very loud, angry voice, so loud indeed that Luke 
Edgcumbe told the coachman to stop, that we might 
understand what was the matter. 

“ Ah, you villain ! ” cried the voice. “ I ’ll make 
it hot for you. Only picking a few honeysuckles, 
eh ? D you, what do you mean by picking honey- 


THE CYNIC'S RELIGION. 


49 


suckles on a Sunday, and on luy land too ? But I 
know you, young Tucker, you thieving, Sabbath- 
breaking rascal. Your father ’s worth a few pounds, 
and I ’ll pay him out for going to law with me 
because my sheep got into his turnip field. You’ll 
see. A — h — h — h ! ” ' 

" Who ’s that ? ” cried Stephen. “ Surely I ’ve 
heard that voice before.” 

“It’s the Colonel on his way to church,” said 
Luke Edgcumbe; “he’s preparing for the service. 
Exercising his voice a bit; getting into the proper 
mood for the imprecatory psalms.” 

In a few minutes we overtook the Colonel’s car- 
riage, where we saw the irate soldier and his three 
daughters. He greeted us very warmly ; and as our 
conveyance drew up by tlie side of his, we shook 
hands all round like old friends. 

“ Glad to see you on the way to church with your 
uncle, Stephen Temple,” the Colonel said pompously ; 
“glad you are beginning right.” 

“You are very regular at church, Colonel,” said 
Luke Edgcumbe. 

“Never miss, sir, never miss, rain or shine. 
Have n’t missed once for twenty years. Don’t go of 
a night, but always of a morning. People are get- 
ting sadly neglectful about religion, Edgcumbe. I ’m 
down on that kind of a thing myself. Keep up 
religion, 1 say, or the country ’s done for. I was the 
same when I was in the service. I was always par- 
ticular about the men being on church parade. No 
leave of absence then, sir ; by George ! no, sir. I 
always did my best to keep the soldiers religious.” 

“ Yes, I ’ve always noticed your earnestness in that 
direction,” said Luke Edgcumbe. 

“ Always particular about it. The same with the 
Communion. I never miss. I was tempted to once, 
about three years ago. Sweeting was away, and he ’d 

4 


50 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


got a fellow to take service for him, who was chap- 
lain for our regiment when I was in India. I had 
been at daggers drawn with him for years, and we 
hated each other as well as two men could. Well, 
as I said, I was tempted to stay away from the 
Communion tliat Sunday ; but no, sir ! I would n’t 
speak to the beggar when I saw him outside of 
church, but I didn’t miss. Drive on, John; w^e 
shall be late if you don’t, and I must n’t be late at 
church. I shall be seeing you again, Edgcumbe.” 

The man drove on, while Luke Edgcumbe gave a 
laugh. Stephen, however, did not pay much atten- 
tion to the conversation ; his eyes were feeding on 
the beauty of Isabella Tempest, with all the passion 
of a boy lover. I discovered in after-years, however, 
that the Colonel ’s views were not without efiect on 
his after-life. 

The service passed without anything of note hap- 
pening. Naturally our eyes were drawn towards 
the Bloornfields pew, which was just in front of Luke 
Edgcumbe’s, and I was struck with the reverence 
which each one of the Tempest family manifested. 
The Colonel especially was exceedingly devotional. 
He turned his face towards the east, and bowed his 
head at the name of Jesus Christ when repeating the 
“ Belief,” with as much fervency as the clergyman 
himself. He 'read the lessons, too, with no small 
amount of impressiveness ; and as one of them was 
a part of the Sermon on the Mount, I was rather cu- 
rious how it would strike him. But he read it 
through in his pompous military style, and a casual 
observer would think he believed it. 

“Ye have heard it hath been said. An eye for an 
eye, and a tooth for a tooth. 

“But I say unto you, that ye resist not evil ; but 
whosoever shall smite thee on the right cheek, turn 
to liim the other ^Iso. 


THE CYNICS RELIGION. ^ 


51 


“ And if any man will sue thee at the law, and 
take away thy coat, let him have thy cloak also.” 

And so on to the end, after which the Colonel 
went back to his seat, as though he had conferred a 
favor on humanity at large, and given dignity to 
religion. 

I saw, too, that a wondering look came into Ste- 
phen Edgcumbe’s eyes during this part of the ser- 
vice ; but evidently he was too intent on watching 
Isabella Tempest to be much impressed by anything 
around him. 

Wlien we came out into the churchyard, Luke 
Edgcumbe congratulated the Colonel on the way he 
had read tlie lessons, which compliment that gentle- 
man took very graciously, after which the “Jam 
Manufacturer ” invited him and his family to come 
to Edgcumbe Hall to dinner one day during the 
week. 

“I’ll invite Sweeting too,” he said, “and then we 
shall be a nice party.” 

The Colonel agreed to this, and we rode away 
towards Edgcumbe Hall. Arrived there, Luke Edg- 
cumbe asked us how we had enjoyed our morning, 
and what we thought of the service, to which neither 
of us replied. 

“ Tempest does the reading very well, does n’t he ? ” 
said Luke; “he’s quite a pillar of the church. I 
must say, however, that it was a bit strong after 
what we heard him say to Tucker, who had been 
picking honeysuckles in his field. But then, you 
see, he got absolution all right.” 

“It makes church-going a bit curious,” Stephen 
suggested. 

“ Just a bit, does n’t it ? But then it ’s the proper 
thing, you know. Besides, things are the same 
everywhere. When I first left home as a lad, I went 
to London, as you know. I learnt the trade of gro- 


52 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


cer, did I ever tell you ? That is, I 'u^orked a year 
or two without pay to pick up the business. My 
employer was a religious man, a Baptist by persua- 
sion. He was a man who went to prayer-meetings 
at seven o’clock in the morning, was very unctuous 
at family prayer ; spoke to us very often about the 
condition of our souls ; sat in the rostrum while 
tlie pastor was preacliing, and all that sort of thing ; 
but for slippery dealings in business I never saw his 
equal. As for the way he treated his shop assistants, 
well, he’d match the old slave-owners. But then, 
you see, his religion paid him. He had all the cus- 
tom of the elect, and was very strong in quoting 
Scripture to them at the right time. He warned 
us all against bad habits, the deceitfulness of riches, 
and so on, and died leaving a big fortune behind 
him. But he left a good sum of money to pay off 
the chapel debt, and the pastor pieached a funeral 
sermon, in which he gave an outline of the career of 
the departed saint. It v'as wonderful, I tell you ; I 
did n’t recognize him from the pastor’s description. 
I was thinking of the lies he told about his goods, 
of the prices he charged for them, and of the way he 
ground down the assistants. Still, he was a very 
religious man, very, and his religion paid him. As 
he said to us many times, ‘ Eeligion ’s a werry profi- 
table thing, young men ; and whatever else you do, 
stick to your religion ! ’ ” 

“ But religious people are not all like that,” said 
Stephen. 

“Ho?” said the uncle; “well, at bottom we are 
all' pretty much alike. We try and make best of 
both worlds ; of course, some do it in one way, and 
some in another; but then our motives are nearly 
the same. My old Baptist master talked about his 
religion in a different way from the Colonel, and each 
would send the other to hell without hesitation ; but. 


THE CYNIHS RELIGION. 


58 


at bottom, I would n*t give a pin to choose between 
them.” 

Luke Edgcumbe gave expression to these senti- 
ments without the slightest hesitation, and spoke 
with that calm assurance which made us believe him 
in spite of ourselves. Still, I felt that Stephen, 
reared as he had been, was bewildered by -his uncle’s 
cynicism, and again he broke out hotly. 

But, uncle,” he cried, “if what you say is true, 
you destroy what seems brightest and best. You 
make Christianity a mere mockery.” 

“ Do I ? ” laughed Luke. “ Well, it does n’t matter. 
All the world, Stephen, follows after that which pays. 
Some people are religious. Why? Because they 
believe it pays. Others, again, are not religious. 
Why ? Because they don’t believe it pays. It ’s all 
a matter of selfishness, my lad ; all a matter of what 
will pay. Still, I’m like the Colonel. Uphold 
religion, I say; uphold the Church, it’s a very use- 
ful institution.” 

“And you go to church because it’s useful?” 

“Just that.” 

“ And why to church rather than to chapel ? ” 

“ Eor the Very simple reason that the Church pays 
best. You see, in this part of the country, old 
associations, old prejudices, custom, and popular feel- 
ing, all say you must be religious. Well, which 
religion must it be ? That of the Ebenezer Indepen- 
dents or that of the Parish Church? In reality, 
there’s not a toss-up between them; but then, on 
the whole, the Colonel and his clique are the people 
one would rather have to do with than the grocers 
and shoemakers who go to Ebenezer. In fact, just 
here the Church is respectable ; it ’s regarded as the 
thing. The clergyman is a gentleman, and as my 
money gives me an entree among the so-called gentle- 
folk, I patronize the most respectable church.” 


54 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“ But Jesus Christ was a carpenter.” 

Now, now, my boy, don’t talk that way. What 
do religious people know or care about Jesus Christ ? 
Why, if they started to follow Him, the whole thing 
would come to the ground. But they don’t; they 
associate certain ideas of their own making around 
His name, and call it His religion. Nobody believes 
in Christianity nowadays ; it ’s all a matter of what 
pays best. Why, Tempest read the lessons in church 
this morning. Did he believe what he read ? When 
I was silly, I bothered a bit about these things ; I 
don’t now. I know what a humbug the whole thing is, 
so I keep cool. Jesus Christ was a plebeian, we know 
that. Colonel Tempest, and Sweeting the parson, 
and Mason, and Hanson, and all these landed gentry, 
bow their heads when they come to His name in 
repeating the ‘ Belief ; ’ but will they associate with 
any one of the same social standing as Jesus was ? 
No ; keep the poor people in their places, is their 
motto. Our family is a pretty respectable one of 
Puritan descent, but the whole lot would cut me but 
for my money. You will understand these things as 
you get older.” 

We rose from the luncheon-table, at which this 
conversation took place, and Stephen and I went out 
into the garden. As we walked down the drive, we 
came across the old gardener, who, in Sunday costume, 
was looking lovingly on the flower-beds. 

“ Good-arternoon, gents.” 

Good-afternoon.” 

The old man looked eagerly up into our faces, as 
though he wanted to understand something before 
speaking. 

“You went to church this mornin’ ? ” he said. 

Stephen nodded. 

“ Maaster was makin’ mock of religion, was n’t he ? ” 
said the old man, hesitatingly. 


THE CYNICS RELIGION. 


55 


He looked so earnestly at ns that Stephen did not 
resent what might seem a liberty, 

“ Because,” continued he, “ all they mocking things 
he do say ’bout religion, and ’bout people, pious 
people, and sich like, is all wrong, all lies. Everybody 
es n’t bad, and religion es real ; ” and he walked away 
as though he had relieved his mind of a burden. 

' To me there was something so helpful and real in 
the man’s words that I was glad we had met him, 
especially when Stephen told me that there was an 
expression on his face which reminded him of his 
father. 


56 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


CHAPTEE YL 

EALPH HUSSEY'S GEATITUDE. 


Ye ’ll try the world fu’ soon, my lad, 

And Andrew, dear, believe me. 

You ’ll find mankind an unco’ squad, 

And muckle they may grieve thee. 

Burns. 

" Mr. Eoberts, I like my nephew very much.” 

X “ He seems a young fellow to be proud ob” 
replied my father. 

“ So far, he ’s been spoiled in his bringing up,” re- 
plied Luke Edgcumbe ; “ that is, he 's been brought 
up to be trustful, to believe in people, to expect sin- 
cerity and truth. Otherwise he s a fine lad. He ’s 
sharp, although as yet he does n’t say much. But 
his face expresses what he does n’t say. With proper 
training he’ll make his mark in the world.” 

“ Yes, I should think so ; but you ’ll see that he 
has a good education?” 

“Yes; and I intend giving him a chance in life. 
I ’m going to tell him what to expect. I ’m going to 
prepare him for the deceit and hollowness of life; 
I’m going to destroy the rosy tints in the glasses 
through which he sees the world; I’m going to let 
him know now what the world is, so that he may go 
into it with his eyes open. You see, he ’s an impres- 
sionable sort of lad, and unless he ’s taken in hand 
now, he’ll throw away his life by taking on with 
some scheme for reforming the masses, and all that 
kind of thing. That must n’t be. There ’s no reason 


RALPH HUSSEY’S GRATITUDE. 


57 


why, with a good education, and a big brain, as I’m 
sure he has, he may not become renowned as a states- 
man, or something of that sort. Start him right, and 
he can soon feel the pulses of the people, and know 
what to do to become a popular favorite.” 

“And do you think you’ll do the best thing for 
him by taking that course ? ” said my father. 

“ Of course I do ; and you ? ” 

“ I think that ’s the way to ririn him.” 

“ No. Mark you, I don’t believe, when you ’ve 
sucked the orange of life dry, you get much for your 
pains ; I Ve found out that. But of tliis I ’m sure : 
the only way to get on, and to make life bearable, is 
to go into the world with your eyes open. The whole 
business of life isn’t worth a rush, but we are all, 
nevertheless, prejudiced in its favor; and so my 
nephew will, like every one else, want to live. But 
if he ’s to get on, if he is n’t to be beaten from pillar 
to post, bruised by this man and beaten by the other, 
he must have his eyes open ; he must know that the 
world will overreach him if it can, and he must pre- 
pare to match the world.” 

“ Then you believe that the world is bad ? ” 

“ I believe just what I see. I know the world ; 
I ’ve lived in it ; I ’ve been knocked about as much 
as but few ; and I ’ve been led to see this : that no- 
body ’s to be trusted, that at bottom nine-tenths of us 
are liars and cheats, and that everybody ’s selfish to 
the heart’s core.” 

“In that case life ’s not worth the living ? ” 

“No.” 

“ Then why live ? ” 

Luke Edgcurnbe laughed. 

“ Take care,” went on my father ; “ what seems true 
to you in a superficial sort of way may become really 
true to your nephew. He may really believe in 
what you say.” 


58 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“ I mean he shall.” 

This conversation was repeated to me years after 
by my father, when we were trying to solve one of the 
great problems of my life. He little thought at the 
time, however, that what he had said to Luke Edg- 
cumbe would really come to pass. 

Two days passed, and Stephen became eager and 
excited. The truth was, -the Colonel and his family 
were coming to dine the next day, and my friend was 
longing for an opportunity of seeing Isabella Tem- 
pest. Every man who has been a boy in love will 
understand his feelings. They will know all his 
hopes, fears, and desires. Everything told him of 
Isabella. The birds sang about her, the sun shone 
for her, the winds sighed about her, the bloom of the 
flowers reminded him of the bloom on her cheek. To 
him she was a goddess, without a fault ; while the 
Colonel, her father, became a sort of glorified being, 
because he was her father. 

On the Wednesday evening we were walking to- 
gether through some fields which skirted a wood, I 
trying to get my friend to talk, while he with dreamy 
eyes looked away towards Bloomfields, which lay in 
the near distance. We kept near the wood ; and 
presently Stephen, thinking we were alone, began to 
talk about the subject nearest his heart. He had 
only spoken a few words, however, when we heard 
a rustling noise in the hedge, and a minute later a 
heavy, strongly built youth of nineteen or twenty 
jumped into the field. I instantly recognized him as 
Ned Tucker, the farmer’s son, whom the Colonel had 
abused so soundly on the previous Sunday morning. 

“ I s’poase you know you are trespassin’ ? ” he said 
surlily. 

“ No,” said Stephen. 

“Well, you be,” replied Tucker. “I s’poase you 
think you ken go where you likes : but you kent. 


RALPH HUSSEY'S GRATITUDE. 


59 


This is my father’s field. Now git out quick, or 
you ’ll be kicked out.” 

I knew this Tucker to be a quiet sort of a fellow, 
and wondered at his speaking in such a way. 

Yas, kicked out ! ” he repeated, going up to 
Stephen like one in a rage, and taking no notice 
of me. 

Stephen’s eyes fiashed angrily, but, turning to me, 
he said, “ Come on, Dan, let ’s get out ; but I thought 
this was a public foot-path.” 

But I ’ll pay you out. It was you who put the 
Colonel up to gittin’ me into trouble about trespassin’. 
Oh, I knaw all about ya, and now I ’ve got ya, I mean 
to let you knaw that I ’m not a chap to be played 
with.” 

Come away, Stephen,” I said, “ and not mind 
what he says.” 

‘•'Mind yer own bisness. Mister Lawyer Eoberts’s 
son,” cried Ned. “I’m a-goin’ to fight with this 
snapper for puttin’ Colonel Tempest agin me.” 

I saw that Stephen was getting into a passion ; 
and I was sure, too, that Ned Tucker was playing a 
part. 

“ Ah, you ’m a coward. Mister Edgcumbe I a coward ! 
Aw ! aw ! But I T1 let ya knaw ; ” and he struck 
Stephen’s face with his open hand. 

I caught Stephen’s arm, for he was about to return 
the blow, but he shook me off angrily. 

“ No, Dan,” he cried ; “I’ll punish the beggar for 
what he says.” 

“ Come on ! ” cried Ned. “ You ’m two to one, so 
you ’ll see fair play on your side ; ” and he threw his 
coat on the ground, and began to roll up his shirt- 
sleeves. 

I was a quiet, reserved sort of lad ; but still I was 
an EngEsh boy, and I no longer tried to hold Stephen 
back. 


60 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


Go at him, Steve,” I cried, ‘‘ and beat him.” 

“ Ay, let him beat me if he can,” cried Ned ; ‘‘ and 
if lie do, I ’ll forgive him.” 

I thought I heard a noise among the bushes on the 
otlier side of the hedge, but I was too excited to pay 
any attention to it. Stephen, I saw, was maddened 
at the way Tucker spoke, and was eager for the fight ; 
but when they had both stripped, I was fearful for 
my friend. Ned Tucker’s arms w^ere large, brown, 
and brawny, while Stephen’s were comparatively 
slight and attenuated. His chest, too, looked flat 
and weak compared with his opponent’s. But his 
eyes flashed fire, his nostrils quivered, his mouth 
moved nervously. 

“ Don’t let him get to close hugs,” I whispered. 
“ He ’s as strong as a horse.” 

“ The brute ! ” cried Stephen, passionately, “ how 
dare he strike me ! He shall be sorry for it — he 
shall.” Then he turned towards Tucker, who, smiling 
and confident, waited to begin. 

They were not so unevenly matched as I had at 
first supposed. Stephen, although slender in form, 
was yet well made, and I afterwards discovered that 
he excelled as a gymnast and cricketer at the school 
which he had just left. His arms, although thin, 
were wiry and firm, and the springy movement 
of his body which I had noticed at our first meeting 
stood him in good stead now. I saw, too, that, al- 
though he was very angry, he did not lose his head 
but watched Tucker keenly. On the other hand, 
however. Tucker was three years older than my friend, 
and his daily avocation tended to develop his phys- 
ical strength. 

In my eagerness for Stephen’s victory, I forgot the 
cause of the quarrel, and at every point he gained 
I cheered him on. If Tucker had calculated on 
an easy victory, he was disappointed, and he soon 


RALPH HUSSEY’S GRATITUDE. 


61 


saw that he had to exert all his strength to be 
master. 

“ Aw ! ” he cried, “ aw ! Tes like that, hi ! I did n’t 
think you could do that ; ” and then he became more 
careful. 

Half an hour later Stephen and I walked away to- 
gether, Stephen bruised, bleeding, and stunned ; while 
Tucker, whom he had just left, was also bruised and 
bleeding, but, as he declared, was ready for a dozen 
more rounds, if needs be. 

“ How are you, old man ? ” I said, as, holding his 
arm, I walked by his side. 

“ All right now, Dan ; the dizzy feeling is gone. 
Let me go back, and I ’ll beat him yet.” 

“No, Steve,” I said. “But wait here a minute; 
there, sit down on this bank. I’ll be back again 
directly.” 

I jumped over the fence, and, running along among 
the hazel bushes which formed the undergrowth in 
the wood, came near to the spot from whence Ned 
Tucker had appeared. I did this because, as I be- 
came cooler, and was able to connect matters, I saw 
that the whole matter was preconcerted. I felt sure 
that Tucker, usually a harmless fellow, would never 
pick a quarrel unless there were some reason other 
than that which appeared. I remembered the look 
which Hussey had bestowed on Stephen as we left 
Bloomfields a few days before, and I thought of the 
noise am'ong the bushes while Ned sought to pick a 
quarrel with Stephen. 

As I drew near, I found that my surmises were 
right, for Hussey was speaking with Ned, and con- 
gratulating him on his victory. 

“ I would n’t a done it if I ’d a know’d, Mr. Hus- 
sey,” he said.' “He id n’t the sort of chap you said 


62 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


a licked me. But there, I Ve done it. Give me the 
suvrin.” 

“ I say, Ned, I ’m right pleased with you ; hut 
you ’ll have to wait a bit. I ’m hard up just now.” 

“No, sir; I’m not a goin’ to wait.” 

“ But you must ; I have n’t got it.” 

“ Then give me yer watch to kip till you get it.” 

“ Let you have my watch ! I ’d like to see myself 
do that.” 

“ The suvrin or the watch !” cried Ned. 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ Jist this. I’ve done this dirty job for you on 
promise of a suvrin. I ’ve blacked both his eyes as I 
promised, so that he caan’t hev dinner with the com- 
p’ny to-morra, and so that it c’n git abroad as ’ow 
ee ’ve bin lightin’, and got bait. I ’ve done that for 
a suvrin, and for a thing or two besides. Now you 
must give me the watch or the suvrin ; ef you don’t, 
I goes to his uncle and tells ezackly how things be, 
but not afore I ’ve lerruped you. I c’n do that aisy. 
You bean’t half the man ee es ! I thought I was 
dailin’ with a gentleman, I ded.” 

I could see Ned meant what he said, and Hussey 
saw it too, for he mused a bit like one in doubt ; then 
he said, as though a thought had struck him, — 

“ Oh, I won’t cheat you. Tucker ; you ’ve served 
me well ; and, stay, I have two half-sovereigns which 
I bad forgotten.” 

“I thought you ’ad,” grunted Ned. “Tip ’em 
ovver. That’s it. Well, a suvrin ’s a suvrin, but I 
wudden lick a chap like that again for five ov ’em. 
Good-night, Mr. Hussey.” 

“ Good-night. Mum is the word, Ned.” 

“Mum,” replied Ned, and went away. 

As I went back, I pondered over what I had heard ; 
but I determined not to tell Stephen, at any rate just 
then. I wanted to think more about it. 


RALPH HUSSEY’S GRATITUDE. 


63 


Stephen was walking to and’ fro, muttering to him- 
self, as I came up, and I knew that his sufferings 
were more mental than physical. 

“ Where have you been, Dan ? ” he asked. 

I went hack to get something,” I answered eva- 
sively. 

“ What maddens me,” he cried, “ is that I sliould 
have been brought into a row just now. My eyes 
will both be black by to-morrow — when — when 
— you know !” 

I did not reply, and we walked together for a few 
seconds without speaking. 

“ Do you think he wanted to fight because of what 
he said ? ” he blurted out presently. 

“ No ; that was a blind,” I replied. 

“ How do you know ? ” 

“ I do know,” I said. “ There 's something behind 
it. Why should Tucker want to pick a quarrel with 
you ? He ’s a quiet, harmless sort of a fellow, not the 
sort to go on like that. He was set on, and we, like 
fools, took the bait.” 

“ He seemed to take no notice of you.” 

No ; it was you. I ’rn not your uncle’s nephew, 
and Miss Tempest didn’t smile on me the other 
day.” 

But — but — Dan, I ” 

“ Wait a bit, and we ’ll find out, old man. Let me 
think a bit.” 

We walked on in silence again ; then I said, — 

“ What about your uncle ? ” 

“ I shall tell exactly what happened.” 

Everything ? ” 

Everything, that is — I don’t know about — yes, 
I ’ll tell him everything.” 

When we got back, Stephen did as he had said. 
He related tbe whole circumstance to his uncle, and 
repeated every word which Ned Tucker bad said. 


64 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“ I suppose you know you are a fool,” was Luke 
Edgcumbe’s remark, after several searching questions. 
‘‘ Sir ! ” 

The older man looked at his nephew, and laughed. 

“ My lad,” he said, “ nothing ’s worth fighting for 
like that. You ’ve been a dupe in this case ; but if 
you hadn’t, you were a fool to fight that fellow. 
However, boys will be boys, and you don’t think that 
the fellow who is at the bottom of this is paying you 
out for a good deed you’ve done him,” 

“ What do you mean? ” 

“ There, that ’ll do. You will be a fool, I suppose ; 
but you can’t appear to-morrow.” 

“ No.” 

“ Well, many nice things will- be said about you. 
You see, you are the nephew of a man who’s made 
money. Every one will ask about you, and be anx- 
ious for your welfare. When I was poor, no one ever 
asked for me ; since I ’ve made money, it ’s surprising 
the number of friends I have. Still, the sham of life 
must be kept up. There, go and get your head 
bathed, and I ’ll keep your secret and tell lies about 
you.” 

Stephen was getting accustomed to his uncle’s 
method of talking, and ceased to wonder at it ; but 
he was very angry when, on looking at his face in 
the glass, he realized that he would have to carry the 
marks of his encounter for several days. 

The following evening a number of people came to 
dinner, and with them Colonel Tempest, his three 
daughters, and Ealph Hussey. The latter no doubt 
felt that his secret was unknown, and he could there- 
fore be present. 

Many inquiries were made about Stephen when 
Luke Edgcumbe remarked that he was confined to 
Ids room and unable to appear, and many flattering 
remarks made. 


RALPH HUSSEY’S GRATITUDE. 


65 


“Fine fellow that nephew of yours, Edgcumbe,” 
said the Colonel, pompously ; “ fine fellow ! Pass for 
a prince anywhere. G-ood old blood in his veins. 
Nothing serious, I hope ? ” 

“ No, he ’ll be up in a day or two.” 

“ By Gad ! I hope so. All my girls think the 
world of him.” 

“Yes,” said the young ladies, “he is delightful, 
and so handsome.” 

Shortly afterwards I saw Ealph Hussey and Isa- 
bella talking earnestly together, and I was jealous for 
my friend. 

There was nothing worth relating that happened 
during dinner, and I was exceedingly glad when it 
was time for the guests to depart. The Colonel 
talked pompously of his religious views, his political 
convictions, and his army experiences ; the Vicar said 
ditto to everything that everybody else said ; while 
Luke Edgcumbe laughed at them both, although they 
were unconscious of it. Again and again I noticed 
that they tried to veneer over the fact that he had 
made his money by jam, while he ostentatiously 
flouted the fact before their eyes. He gave expres- 
sion to things, too, which I thought the Vicar would 
have indignantly refuted ; but I saw at length that 
jam money was regarded of greater importance than 
anything else. 

Before the party broke up, I drew Ealph Hussey 
aside and spoke to him. 

“ I have discovered your part in relation to Ned 
Tucker’s behavior yesterday,” I said. “ I know why 
he sought that quarrel with Stephen. I saw you 
pay him a sovereign for his work.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” he said, with a guilty look 
in his eyes. 

“Just that,” I replied, “and I shall tell him of 
your gratitude.” 


5 


66 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


That night I thought it best to tell Stephen what 
I knew, and the conversation which had passed be- 
tween Hussey and Tucker. He listened very atten- 
tively ; and when I had finished was silent for some 
time. Then he broke out, as if in astonishment: 

“ And yet I saved his life the day I came here ! ” 


TIIE CYNICS VIEWS ABOUT PROFESSIONS. 67 


CHAPTEE VII. 


THE cynic’s VIEWS ABOUT PKOFESSIONS. 


Others mistrust and say, “ But Time escapes : 
Live now or never ! ” 


He said, “ What ’s time ? Leave Now for dogs and apesl 
Man has for ever.” 


Man has for ever.^ 


Eobekt Browning. 



‘HE days passed swiftly by, and Stephen recov- 


1 ered from his conflict with Hed Tucker, and 
paid two or three visits to Bloom fields. A very 
hearty invitation was sent to him ; and as it included 
one for me, I went with him. 

“ Come when you like, my boy,” said the Colonel, 
“and be jolly. I sha’nt be home always, but the 
young people will ; and, by Gad ! I don’t suppose 
you ’ll care much for me when they are around.” 

As may be imagined, this made Stephen very 
happy, and each time he went his ardor increased for 
Isabella Tempest. When he was with his uncle, he 
could not help being a bit depressed and sad ; but 
when with this proud country beauty, his boyish 
dreams were realized, and his happiness knew no 
bounds. If for an hour or two he was impressed 
with Luke Edgcumbe’s sombre views of life, and led, 
in spite of himself, to catch his cynical spirit, when 
he reached Bloomfields all was different. Then all 
was brightness. Ealph Hussey’s covert sneers trou- 
bled him not a bit ; and although, boy-like, he was 
jealous of the friendship that existed between him 


68 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


and Isabella, he never referred to the episode with 
Tucker. He lived in Arcadia ; and although no for- 
mal love-making passed between them, I knew they 
understood each other, while I saw that the Colonel 
smiled, and spoke very pompously and kindly to the 
“ dear boy, Stephen Temple.” 

Although I went often to see my father, we were 
much together, and I was glad that each day our 
friendship became stronger. 

At last September came, and, knowing that the 
time of our separation drew near, I wondered what 
plans Luke Edgcumbe had made concerning his 
nephew. Towards the middle of the month he 
called us both in the library, and began talking 
with Stephen. 

“ Have you made up your mind what you are going 
to be, Steve ? ” he asked. 

“ Hardly, uncle ; neither had dad quite decided 
when he died.” 

“ Well, it ’s about time now, is n’t it ? ” 

“ I shall be very glad to decide.” 

“ Your father has decided about you, Daniel. He 
told me yesterday that he was going to send you to 
Edinburgh to study medicine.” 

“ Yes, sir ; I believe that ’s settled,” I replied. 

“There’s but little chance in medicine without 
influence,” he replied. “ If you can get the right side 
of some old fool who has made a name by prescribing 
pills for Lord Somebody, you may get on ; or if, by 
some stroke of luck, you can get your name associated 
with a celebrity, no matter how big a fool you may 
be, you ’ll soon be able to sport a carriage and pair.” 

“ I hope to rise by ability and merit.” 

“ My lad,” he said, “ if ability and merit are all the 
capital you have, you ’ll eat small dinners. No ; you 
must get boomed somehow, if you ’re to get on. 
However, no doubt you ’ll do your part. You are 


THE CYNIC’S VIEWS ABOUT PROFESSIONS. 69 

shrewd, although you are quiet. You’re a son of 
your father, and I think he can trust you. But, 
Stephen, what about you ? ” 

“ I hardly know, uncle ; have you thought of any- 
thing ? ” 

“ Yes ; I ’ve got a list of professions here. You can 
get on in most of them if you keep your eyes open, 
and are willing to pay the price. I ’ll read them out. 
The first I ’ve got down is the profession of the law. 
What do you think of it ?” 

Stephen was silent. 

There are many great names associated with the 
law,” said Luke Edgcumbe ; but I ’ve my doubts 
about your power to get on in it.” 

“Why?” 

“ Well, you Ve got a conscience. Of course you ’ll 
lose its fine edge in a few years ; but, at present, I ’m 
afraid of you. A man who ’s going to succeed as a 
lawyer must have no scruples ; and, to be honest with 
you, I don’t think you ’ll be ever sufficient of a liar 
to make any headway.” 

“ But, uncle ! ” 

“We are talking business, lad, and we must have 
no moral claptrap. I ’m a man of the world ; I ’ve 
had scores of lawsuits, and I never knew one won 
yet, without — well — giving up a strict regard for 
the truth. The question is, are you sufficiently a 
smart fellow to get on ? Mark you, there are liars 
and liars, and the great point of a clever lawyer is to 
make lies seem like truth, and to tell them in such 
a way as not to be found out till the case is won. A 
lawyer is judged by his success, not by his cleverness. 
Do you think that, as a barrister, you could be elo- 
quent about, and plead for, people whom you knew 
to be corrupt and in the wrong ? ” 

“ I ’m sure I could nt.’” 

Then we’ll cross off that for the time. I ’ll put 


70 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


a remark opposite that: ^ enough of a liar' The 
next profession I have is that of the Church. What 
do you think of that ? ” 

A thoughtful look came into Stephen’s eyes, and 
his lip trembled. 

“You’ll never get on in that, I’m afraid,” said 
Luke Edgcumhe. 

“ I ’m not worthy of it, I ’m afraid,” said Stephen. 

“ Bah ! you are too worthy.” 

“ But how can ” 

“ There are two or three things essential, if a man 
is to get on in the Church,” interrupted Luke. 

“ And they ? ” 

“Well, first, there is influence. It is true, you can 
buy a living — ' a cure for souls ’ they call it, don’t 
they ? There, as elsewhere, money can do much ; but, 
you see, you are poor. I ’m going to give you an edu- 
cation ; after that you ’ll have to shift for yourself.” 

“ Thank you, uncl^.” 

Luke Edgcumhe looked at his nephew, with a curi- 
ous expression on his face. Tenderness, mistrust, 
grimness, cynicism — all were expressed there. 

“Well, then, in the Church you can’t get on unless 
you are a fool and have money. You are not a fool, 
and you have no money. Besides, you are not yet 
enough of a hypocrite ; but that will come in time, 
no doubt.” 

“ A hypocrite, uncle, a hypocrite — a minister ? ” 

“ Absolutely essential, my boy. But let ’s look at 
it fairly. Suppose you go into the Church. You, of 
course, sw^ear to the Thirty-nine Articles, although 
you don’t believe in them ; you get a curacy, we ’ll 
say, in some country parish. Sometimes the vicar 
will let you preach ; but, as I said, you are not a fool, 
and will probably preach better than the vicar. With 
what result ? The people wdll begin to praise you, 
and you ’ll be sent about your business.” 


THE CYNIC’S VIEWS ABOUT PROFESSIONS. 71 


“ But I should ” 

“ Well,’*' went on Luke Edgcumbe, without minding 
his nephew’s interruption, “ supposing you get a liv- 
ing, the question is, are you enough of a hypocrite to 
get on ? ” 

“ Hypocrite ! ” 

“Hypocrite. Hobody believes in Jesus Christ 
really. If the parsons preached the Christianity of 
Christ, all the churches would be emptied. You are 
at present predisposed in favor of telling the truth ; 
if you did, you’d die a martyr. The prophets of 
olden time did, John the Baptist did, Jesus Christ 
did.” 

“Well, if I were a martyr for the truth, I should 
be ” 

“ A fool,” interrupted Luke. “ Hohody wants the 
truth or expects it, and would only despise you for 
what you ’d done.” 

“Ho,” cried Stephen; “the people heard Christ 
gladly.” 

“ And crucified Him. But then we are all as we 
sere made, mean enough, the best of us, and we must 
take life as it is, and people as they are. Nothing in 
life is w^orth doing unless it pays. Nobody ever does 
anything unless it pays, except a madman, or a fool 
here and there.” 

“ But what of the missionaries who go away into 
foreign lands ? Does it pay them to leave everything 
and go away ? ” 

“ Of course it does. The men who go as mission- 
aries are better off there than at home. They have a 
fine time, a great deal better than cleverer men in 
England.” 

“They suffer danger, and face death ofttimes,” 
cried Stephen, remembering incidents his father had 
told him. “ They can’t do that because it pays them.” 

“No, but they get their vanity flattered. When 


72 


ALL MEN ARE LLARS. 


they come home every year or two they are lionized, 
their names are mentioned in the papers, they are 
made something of ; and, bless you, men are so made 
that they ’ll do anything to be lifted a bit above their 
fellows. I remember going into Exeter Hall once, 
wEere a returned missionary spoke. I tell you he 
was made a hero of. When he got up to speak, the 
people rose e7i masse, and there was such a cheering, 
while old women and young girls waved their hand- 
kerchiefs because a young chit of a parson, who had 
been to Ceylon, or Africa, or China, or somewhere, 
gulled them with foolish nonsense.” 

“ But all are not hypocrites. There are many good, 
and I could be true and do good.” 

“ Nonsense ! Who ’s the better for all the par- 
sons ? Besides, if you did not become a time-server, 
you ’d die of a broken heart.” 

Stephen was silent. I think he was remembering 
his father’s life. 

Of course you might go into one of the Dissent- 
ing bodies, like your father, and there you ’d be killed 
as he was. Dissenters are mostly so anxious about 
religion that they are willing to kill their parsons so 
that they may have three sermons a week, lectures, 
societies, and institutions of all sorts. But then 
you ’d have to preach what your deacons, who most 
likely would be butchers or shoemakers, desired. In 
fact, there ’s more hypocrisy needed in a Dissenting 
Church than in the Established Church. A vicar 
can do pretty much what he likes ; but the minister 
of a little Bethel belongs body and soul to his flock. 
If he were to dare to tell them the truth, his bread 
and cheese would be gone. Besides, after all, what ’s 
the whole business worth? We’U cross off that, 
shall we?” 

“ Yes, you may cross off that,” said Stephen, quietly. 

“Well, then, you might be an actor. There are 


THE CYNICS VIEWS ABOUT PROFESSIONS. 73 

men coining money on the stage, — coining it ; but 
they are few and far between. Besides, the stage 
isn’t respectable. Of course there are a few big 
guns in London who are popular favorites ; but for 
the rank and file of actors scant respect is felt. Of 
course lots of people go to the theatres who are ex- 
ceedingly moral and religious; they cry at the pa- 
thetic scenes, and laugh at the comic ones ; but as 
for receiving the actors into their houses — well, 
that’s another matter. No, no; actors and actresses 
have got the reputation of being dreadfully wicked ; 
and although virtuous and pious people allow them- 
selves to be amused, they look down upon those who 
amuse them. Besides, I’m afraid you’ll hardly do 
for that.” 

“No, I’m afraid not.” 

“ Well, then, we ’ll cross that out. What about the 
army or navy, now ? A man need n’t be a genius to 
get on there. Besides, the profession of killing folks 
is respectable. Won’t that do ? ” 

“ No, that won’t do.” 

“ But think of the Lord Tom Noddys there are in 
the. service, — princes of the blood, and all that. To 
be captain in the army means an entree in the very best 
of society. Think what an ennobling, intellectual 
pursuit it is, and how useful ! Besides, what oppor- 
tunities there are of being religious ! The wliole- tone 
of the profession — the idea that you are paid to kill 
people — must develop all that’s noble. What do 
you say to the army now, Steve ? ” 

Neither of us could help laughing at the picture 
he drew; but I saw that Stephen did not choose 
the army as a profession. 

“You see,” went on Luke, “you must have a pro- 
fession. A trade would hinder you from being re- 
ceived into society. Clergymen and religious people 
don’t admit tradesmen into their houses, so you must 


74 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


have a profession. Come, we are getting to the end 
of the tether. There is the educational world, the 
Indian Civil Service, and the world of letters. You 
might be an author.” 

“ I should like to be a lawyer very well,” said 
Stephen, and in time become a member of Parlia- 
ment.” 

“ It won’t do, my boy. To get into Parliament 
means money, and there ’s nothing at the end of being 
a member of Parliament unless you are the tool of 
your party, and are willing to sell your conscience.” 

“It seems to me, uncle, that one’s conscience 
stands in the way of advancement in every realm of 
life.” 

“ True, my lad ; but as a rule it means but little. 
People are generally willing to sell their consciences 
if thereby they can gain anything. Still, I ’ve my 
doubts about you. I ’m afraid your conscience is a 
troublesome affair, and so there will be a difficulty in 
your getting on.” 

“ Then your opinion is ” 

“ That people who get on in this life have to give 
moral sentiment the go-by, and, to give credit to 
mankind, there are but few who are not willing to 
do this.” 

“ But dishonesty is punished. Our laws exist to 
advance honesty, and to destroy the opposite.” 

“ Just so, my lad. But what honesty ? We have a 
conventional code of honesty, by which if we abide 
all is well. But our code of honesty and your con- 
ceptions of honesty are far removed. It ’s dishonest, 
for example, for a starving man to steal a bit of bread ; 
but what about the big lord who steals the land that 
produces the bread ? You ’ve heard the story of the 
goose and the common. The man who steals the 
goose off the common is put to prison; the noble 
lord who steals the common sends the man to the 


THE CYNIC'S VIEWS ABOUT PROFESSIONS. 75 


prison. But there, things are as they are; and if 
everything were done according to the strict laws of 
honesty, what a world it would be ! ” 

“But what would you advise?” asked Stephen. 
“ You seem to think that the doors of all the profes- 
sions are closed to me. What shall I do ? ” 

“ 1 11 admit,” replied Luke Edgcumbe, “ that I have 
seemed to make it a bit hard. But still we may 
manage. Yo-ur father’s idea was to send you fo one 
of the Universities, and while you were there he 
thought you would see which way your feelings lay, 
and so be led to mark out your course. I think we ’d 
better do that still. I don’t know that the whole 
business of life is worth making this fuss about; still, 
I suppose you want to live, and make the best of 
this dirty little world.” 

“ Then your idea is that I go to one of the Univer- 
sities ? ” 

“ That ’s it. I ’ve about made up my mind to send 
you to Manchester. There ’s a fine college there, and 
I can easily arrange for you to stay with one of my 
old acquaintances who lives in Oxford Street, close by 
Owens College. He is what is called ‘ a coach,’ so he 
would be able to serve you in a double capacity.” 

“ Manchester, Manchester,” mused Stephen. 

“ It ’s a fine city,” remarked Luke ; “ a great com- 
mercial centre, and a place of great influence. I 
think the system of education is as free from sham 
and humbug as at any place I know. Oxford and 
Cambridge are exceedingly uppish, and engender all 
sorts of foolish notions.” 

“ Very good ; 1 11 do my best.” 

“ See that you do, and remember to mind number 
one. If you are strong to fight, people will respect 
you ; if you don’t, they ’ll tread you under their feet. 
There now, you 11 want to be off together now, I 
suppose, and talk over your plans together, and make 


76 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


bright pictures about the future. I suppose, too, 
you think those pictures will be realized ? ” 

We left the house soon after, with Luke Edg- 
cumbe’s words, half earnest, half jocular, ringing in 
our ears. 

'' Mr. Edgcumbe is a very successful man,” I said 
to Stephen : why, then, is he not more hopeful, 
more happy ? ” 

“ I don’t know. Look ! who ’s this coming ? ” 
Could I not see for myself, I could easily have 
guessed, as I saw Stephen’s flushed face and eager 
eyes. He quickened his steps, and ere long was by 
the side of Isabella Tempest. 

They were quite boy and girl lovers, yet I could 
not somehow understand Miss Tempest’s behavior. 
She seemed fond of him, and yet I could not help 
feeling that she was really indifferent concerning him. 
However, I never did know the ways of women ; 
they always have been, and are still, a deep sea 
which no man has yet fathomed. 

“ I go to Manchester in a week or two,” he said to 
her after their first greeting. 

“ To Manchester ? Why, pray ? ” 

“ To college there, — Owens College.” 

" But why not to Oxford or Cambridge ? ” 

“ Uncle Luke does n’t like the idea.” 

Her lip curled a little scornfully, I thought ; then 
she said, “ But you will come home often ? ” 

“ Every vacation — you know I will.” 

“ You will forget me there.” 

“Forget you? oh,. Isabel! Will it not be other- 
wise ? Will you promise ? ” 

“ Have you decided your profession yet ? ” 

“ Ho ; my uncle does n’t seem to be able to fix upon 
one, neither can I just now. That will be arranged 
later on.” 

A pleased look came into her eyes, and they wan- 


THE CYNICS VIEWS ABOUT PROFESSIONS. 77 


dered away together, while I stood musing and 
watching, and wondering what the future would be. 

“ Bell,” he said ardently, “ I shall alwa3^s love you, 
only you, as long as I live. I do nothing without 
thinking of you. While I am at college, my one 
thought will be to be worthy of you; wherever I 
am, my great anxiety will be for you. Oh, Bell, if 
you only knew ! ” 

“ But we must n’t let pa know — yet.” 

“ Not yet ? ” 

“ Not until you ’ve finished your college course.” 

“And then, BeU?” 

“ What then, you foolish boy ? ” 

“I shall find my Bell waiting? You are sure. 
Bell?” 

“ Of course I shall. There, I must go home now.” 

“ Give me one kiss. Bell, just one.” 

She held her face towards him, wliile he kissed her 
with all the fond ardor of a boy of seventeen. 

“There, go now ; and, Steve, don’t tell anybody — 
not yet.” 

Shortly after, Stephen Edgcumbe and I parted, — 
he to go to Owens College, Manchester, while I went 
to Edinburgh. 


78 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


CHAPTER VIII 


STEPHEN’S COACH 


For what hath man of all his labor, and of the vexation of his 
heart, wherein he hath labored under the sun “? 

For all his days are sorrows, and his travail grief ; yea, his heart 
taketh not rest in the night. This also is vanity. 


Solomon. 



0 far, my story of Stephen Edgcumbe has been 


o told mostly as an eye and an ear witness ; in 
future, however, I shall not always be able to do this. 
From this time we were often separated, and so his 
doings and experiences will be related either as he 
told them to me, or as I heard them from other faith- 
ful witnesses. 

Of my own history I shall say little or nothing, 
save when it is associated with my friend’s. His is 
the story that is worth the telling, and I will tell it 
as well as I am able. 

Stephen was met at the Central Station, Manches- 
ter, by his future host and private tutor, a man about 
fort}^ years of age, rather handsome in appearance, 
and of strong personality. Stephen recognized him 
instantly from his uncle’s description, and when he 
saw him at the station went to him without hesita- 
tion. 

“ You are Mr. Ilford ? ” he said eagerly. 

“ Yes, and you are Stephen Edgcumbe ? ” 

They went away together, and soon after reached 
Mr. Ilford’s house, which stood in Oxford Street, on 
the Rusholme side of Owens College. 


STEPHEN'S COACH. 


79 


As Mr. Eichard Ilford was closely associated with 
Stephen during the next few years, it will be well for 
ns to understand something about him. 

Eichard Ilford was a Londoner, his father being a 
chemist in London, of quiet studious ways, and con- 
sequently pretty much of a recluse. Eichard from a 
lad became a great student. He read freely of the 
books in his father’s library, and, his mind having 
somewhat of a metaphysical bent, he pondered over 
subjects to which as a rule lads of his age were 
strangers. His cleverness, however, was very useful 
to him. Through it he obtained many scholarships, 
and so he passed from one educational institution to 
another without any expense to his father. 

When he was about twenty-one, he became closely 
associated with one of the professors under whom he 
studied, who found the clever young fellow very use- 
ful to him, especially as at the time he was engaged 
in producing a work which required the help of such 
a fellow as Ilford. This professor had a daughter, a 
handsome, fascinating girl, with whom Ilford fell in 
love, and who seemingly, fascinated by the brilliant 
young student, returned his affections. For a year 
Eichard was in heaven. He knew he was poor ; but 
with her love to inspire him, and his past record, he 
felt sure he could eventually become a professor at 
one of the London colleges, and thus secure an income 
sufficient to embolden him to ask Ehoda Black to be 
his wife. Her father seemed to favor his attentions 
and encourage his hopes, and thus happiness and fame 
seemed certain. At the end of the year the professor’s 
great work was finished, while Ilford noticed a change 
in Ehoda’s behavior. Moreover, a rich young fool 
often visited Professor Black’s house, and was warmly 
welcomed. Jealousy entered into the young man’s 
heart, and then, determined to know his fate at once, 
he asked her to be his wife. The girl was evidently 


80 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


moved by the expression of his love, and told him 
that she was very fond of him, and had enjoyed his 
society so much! She thought him clever, — oh, so 
very clever; hut then her father was poor, and Mr. 
Jones was very rich, and — and — well, she thought 
it best, and her papa thought it best, that she should 
marry Mr. Jones. 

“ And you love him better than me ? cried Eichard. 

‘‘ No, no ; but then, you see, I Ve been accustomed 
to have everything I wanted, and you would be poor 
for so many years, and papa ” 

“Enough!” cried the young fellow; “you cast me 
aside like an old glove.” 

The girl was distressed, but a big house in Grosve- 
nor Square and an old mansion in the country were 
more to her than love. She admitted that Mr. Jones 
was not brilliant, — indeed, pretty much of a fool ; 
but she hoped that Mr. Ilford would see her position, 
and not distress her. 

“ No, I ’ll not distress you any more,” cried Ilford ; 
“ and you will see me no more, for your father has no 
further need of me.” 

When Ilford left the house that night he was a 
changed man, and thus life to him was changed. 
With a sore, sad heart he began to muse and brood 
a good deal. Ambition had largely died out ; and so, 
instead of prosecuting his studies in a practical way, 
he began to read dark, gloomy literature. He rev- 
elled in the writings of Schopenhauer, Von Hartmann, 
and the whole school of German pessimists, and soon 
began to realize a gloomy sort of pleasure in believ- 
ing that everything was bad, that the world was as 
badly made as it could be, that human nature was a 
poor, coarse sort of affair, that no beneficent purpose 
could be seen in providence, and that life on the 
whole was scarcely worth the living. 

Tilled with these ideas, and thus saddened to the 


STEPHEN'S COACH. 


81 


heart’s core, he ceased to be practical, and ceased to 
engage his thouglits on those phases of life which, to 
use his own words, “ made the best of a poor, coarse, 
dirty affair,” and thus he failed to succeed in obtain- 
ing a footing in those walks of life into which his 
early achievements promised him a speedy entrance. 
This went on for five or six years, during which, 
while he managed to get bread and cheese, he 
failed to obtain recognition in the quarters where he 
felt he deserved a welcome. At six and twenty, 
therefore, he was in many respects an old man ; and 
at that time of life when he should have been full of 
hope and energy, he was despariug and tired. 

About this time he met Luke Edgcumbe, who was 
several years older than himself ; and although dis- 
similar in many of their tastes, a friendship sprang 
up between themf. Luke Edgcumbe looked upon life 
as an orange to suck dry ; and although the orange 
was a poor sort of thing, it was the best thing to do 
with it. Richard Ilford, on the other hand, abused 
the orange, because he lacked the power to get any 
sweetness from it. To both, life was a poor thing, at 
least in theory. Hunianity to both was corrupt. 
Luke Edgcumbe studied man, and from his stand- 
point, man was bad ; Richard Ilford studied books, 
ideas, and the general tendencies of life, and came to 
the conclusion that everything was inherently bad. 
That if man was bad, he could not help it ; that the 
forces of life, whatever they might be, were evil ; and 
that life, while we were prejudiced in favor of living, 
was really a curse. 

These two men naturally influenced each other, 
but not in any true or upward direction. Richard 
Ilford led Luke Edgcumbe to look, not only at the 
badness of men, but at the forces in life which made 
them, what they were; while Edgcumbe caused Ilford 
to consider life in the concrete as well as in the abstract. 

6 


82 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


Luke, looking at life from his standpoint, was prac- 
tical, and matched sharpness, overreaching, and sel- 
fishness with the same qualities, and determined to 
out-scheme the men who were scheming to make 
money out of him ; Ilford, while he was led to think 
of means of getting a livelihood, and perhaps afflu- 
ence, still continued his gloomy speculations, which 
led to still more sombre and hopeless views. 

Years passed away, and an old companion of Il- 
ford’s told him that if he would come to Manchester, 
where he had obtained some influence, he could se- 
cure him several young fellows who studied at Owens, 
and who required assistance, as home pupils. He 
therefore took a house in Oxford Street, not far from 
the college, hired an old woman as housekeeper, and 
in the course of a few weeks, the autumn term then 
commencing, succeeded in getting a few young lel- 
lows to board with him ; these he also served in the 
capacity of private tutor. By this means he was able 
to get a respectable livelihood, and had at the same 
time plenty of opportunities for reading, and also for 
writing a book in which his now favorite views were 
to be expressed. 

Such was the history of Eichard Ilford up to the 
time that Stephen was sent to him. Of his uncle’s 
motives in sending him to such a man there could be 
little doubt. Luke was a great l^eliever in disillusion- 
ment ; he called himself a realist, and his creed was 
that the only way to make Stephen’s existence bear- 
able was to present life to him in its true light, and 
thus save him from the terrible disappointments 
which would otherwise surely follow. 

The tutor’s creed might be summed up briefly; 
and although he did not repeat the articles of that 
creed to Stephen in so many words, it leaked out 
little by little, and, like his uncle’s views concerning 
the world generally, became a deposit in my friend’s 


STEPHEN’S COACH. 


. 83 


life. If Eichard Ilford were to tell exactly in so 
many words what he believed, he would say some- 
thing like this : — 

I believe that the world is as bad as it can be, and that 
life on the whole is a failure. 

Still, men foolishly cling to life because of some pecu- 
liar taint in their constitution. 

All religions are myths, the outcome of man’s super- 
stitious bent in an ignorant age. 

Never be in earnest; nothing is worth being in earnest 
about. 

A truly wise man is never enthusiastic, and never acts 
on impulse. 

Hope for nothing ; hope always ends in disappointment. 

Every man has his price; if you offer a price high 
enough, you can buy him. 

A woman can be more easily bought than a man. 

There is really no such thing as virtue. 

Morals are a matter of country, climate, etc. 

The color of a man’s hair has a great deal more to do 
with his morals than education has. 

The morals of the world will never be improved ; they 
will more likely get worse ; and then man’s misery will 
become so great that, out of sheer despair, some great 
scheme of self-destruction will be invented. 

Man’s hope of a future and a better life is founded on 
a vain delusion, and will never be realized. 

This joyful creed Eichard Ilford expressed casually 
in the course of conversation, not ostensibly, but cov- 
ertly, as opportunity occurred. He expressed it also 
with such grace of diction, and associated it with so 
many great names and in such plausible forms, that 
it did not appear so bare and ghastly as when told in 
plain, straightforward words. It was therefore more 
insidious, more dangerous. 

It is not my purpose to write in anything like de- 
tail the history of my friend’s college career. Enough 


84 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


that I indicate the influences by which he was sur- 
rounded. The course at Owens itself was vigorous 
and healthy. With capable professors, a fine library, 
and a high standard of education placed before him, 
he had enough to inspire him to work, and to arouse 
the healthy and vigorous side of his life. The stu- 
dents, too, many of them, were fine, manly young 
fellows, and some of the best of them became at- 
tached to Stephen, — partly, no doubt, because he was 
a really lovable fellow, and partly, too, because in the 
college cricket club he became a crack batsman, and 
the best bowler of whom the college could boast. 

On the whole, I do not think he realized that he 
was much influenced by his host and private tutor. 
One of his letters to me may here be printed, show- 
ing the state of his mind during the third year of his 
college course. 

Dear Dan, — 

I am glad you are doing so well at Edinburgh, and 
that you are on a fair way to become another Harvey. It 
must indeed be pleasant to you for your professors to give 
you so much encouragement by telling you that if you 
are true to your promise you will take a high place in the 
medical world ; although, if Uncle Luke is right, brains 
and cleverness count for very little in your profession, 
unless backed up by private influence. My boy, you 
must take his advice, and marry the daughter of some 
great medical dignitary, and then your position will be 
assured. 

You will be glad to know that I do fairly here. I 
took a first in all the subjects but one at the Easter 
exam., and Mr. Ilford tells me I ought to come out very 
well at the final next month. I might do better, I think, 
if I did less general reading and stuck more to my text- 
books ; but Mr. Ilford has a fine library, and has given 
me a taste for speculative subjects. 

I have told you what curious views Ilford has. If I 
believed as he does, or as the old German of whose works 


STEPHEN’S COACH 


85 


he is so fond, I think I should go mad. It is true, I can’t 
answer many of his arguments ; 1 only feel he is wrong. 
Like Tennyson, I feel as if I must say, — 

“ If e’er when faith had fallen asleep 
I heard a voice, ‘ Believe no more,’ 

And heard an ever-breaking shore 
That tumbled on the godless deep ; 

“ A warmth within the heart would melt 
The freezing reason’s colder part. 

And like a man in wrath the heart 
Stood up and answered, ‘ I have felt ! ’ ” 

Of course, he replies that my feelings are all humbug, 
and so on ; and yet I know that life is a glad thing. How 
can it be otherwise, hoping as I do, and knowing what I 
do? How can virtue be a fraud, and love a delusion, 
while I know the girl to whom I have given my life ? 
And so, while I can’t answer his arguments, my heart 
laughs at him. Still, life ’s a mystery. Have you no- 
ticed that in cold countries the people are very moral and 
very miserable, while in warm countries people are very 
immoral and very happy ? Contrast the Italian and the 
Norwegian, for example. 

Manchester is an awful place. In summer it is not 
so bad, but in the winter the misery is terrible. What is 
the meaning of it ? And yet my own life is so full of hap- 
piness and hope that I can’t realize the misery of others. 

But there, I’m not going to bother you with these 
matters. In a month or so we shall meet, and then we 
can talk over a thousand things. By the way, I shall be 
twenty in a few days ; but Isabella says I must not speak 
to her father until I am twenty-one, and can come to him 
with a position somewhat assured. The first qualification 
will soon come around; but the second — well, I’m 
doubtful about it. My mind does not seem to settle in 
any fixed groove, and my uncle says nothing. But there, 
that, too, will come, no doubt. 

Ever thine. 


Stephen. 


86 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


Eeadirig the letter now, although I do not think 
he felt it when he wrote it, I see something of the 
influence both of his uncle and of his tutor ; but at 
the time I saw no difference in my friend, except that 
he was older and more thoughtful. 

A month or so later we met, and spent a happy 
time together. He was a bit disappointed, he told 
me, because Isabella had discouraged his visits some- 
what. Her excuse was that while she loved him as 
much as ever, she felt she must not receive his atten- 
tions until arrangements for his future had been 
made. When he was twenty-one, no doubt matters 
would be more settled, and then they could be more 
open. 

For my own part it seemed strange, but to Stephen 
all was well but for present disappointment. She 
had grown more handsome than ever, in his opin- 
ion, and her ripened beauty worked on him like 
a charm. One look from her great brown eyes con- 
quered him in a moment, and she led him at will. 

So he promised to be silent for another year, and 
in the mean time he would do what she wished. 

“ What would you like me to be ? ” he asked. 

*‘If — if you must be — something, would not a 
barrister be as — as good as anything ? ” she said. 

Then Stephen was more than ever glad that he 
had started out to get a degree in law, and lost no 
time in telling his uncle that he had decided to adopt 
the law as his profession. 

“ Law, eh ? ” remarked Luke, looking at him keenly. 

Well, lad, be what you like ; but that means starva- 
tion.” 

“We shall see,” said Stephen, his eyes shining 
with determination and hope. 

Luke Edgcumbe laughed, while a peculiar expres- 
sion came on his face. I think I know now what he 
was thinking about. 


STEPHEN'S COACH. 


87 


During the vacation I heard that Ealph Hussey 
was often seen with Isabella Tempest, and that they 
seemed on very intimate terms. I did not like this, 
for I was jealous for my friend. 

I said so much one day to Stephen, but he laughed 
at me. 

“ Why, you suspicious old Dan ! ” he cried ; “ do 
you think I can’t trust Isabella ? Why, all her in- 
timacy with Hussey is a blind, my boy ; a mere 
blind. No, Dan, never try and lead me to doubt 
her; for if I doubted her, why — I should — but 
there 

There was no doubt about Stephen’s love ; it was 
as real as his very life. Was Isabella Tempest’s so 
real ? I had my doubts about it ; and yet at times 
when I saw them together away from members of 
her family, she seemed so fond of him that I did not 
wonder at my friend’s faith in her constancy. 

The next year at Owens was a brilliant one ^ for 
Stephen ; he threw himself into his work with all the 
ardor of which his intense nature was capable, and, as 
the professors declared, carried everything before him. 
Even his uncle, who went to Manchester on the prize 
day in the month of June, could not help being 
pleased at the number of prizes he took, and at the 
flattering things that were said of his nephew. 

“ Who is he ? ” he heard some one ask, as time after 
time his name was read out as the receiver of a prize. 

Edgcumbe ! Edgcumbe ! Don’t know ; but he ’s 
a handsome fellow,” was the reply. “ He ’ll do some- 
thing in life.” 

That was the general impression concerning him, as 
on-lookers watched his fine, sensitive, and really grand 
face; and many a sister who had come to hear a 
brother’s name mentioned, talked afterwards about 
Stephen, and wondered if ever she might see him 
again. 


88 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“Come home with ns, Ilford, and spend a part 
of the vacation,” said Luke Edfrcumbe, when they 
reached his house in Oxford Street. “You have 
plenty of time, and it will be a change for you.” 

The invitation was accepted, and that evening 
Stephen was suprised to hear both his uncle and tutor 
speaking cheerfully. 

“ And what have you been reading besides your text- 
books through the year ? ” asked Luke, after dinner. 

“ Mr. Ilford would allow me to read nothing but 
novels,” was the reply. 

“ And they ? ” 

Stephen mentioned them. They were of that class 
which Ilford recommended, and which have become 
the rage during the last few years. Professing to 
belong to the realistic school, the writers seemed 
to gloat over the dark, evil side of humanity, and to 
present existence in the ghastliest aspects. They, 
while holding a high place in the world of letters, 
wrote of the sewers and cesspools of life ; and though 
they clothed their thoughts in fine garbage, they pre- 
sented nothing but gloom and misery. To allow 
one’s mind to become imbued with the teaching of 
these works was really to shut out the sun and to 
admit en Moc the creed of Eichard Ilford. 

Stephen admitted that he had been much fascinated 
with this modern school of writers, although he de- 
clared he could not accept its views of life. 

“ The question is,” said Luke, “ have the fellows 
told the truth as much as it can be told in this lying 
world ? Have they presented life as it is ? That ’s 
the real question.” 

And then followed a conversation in which the 
subject was discussed ; Stephen vehemently opposing 
the realistic views, so called, Luke caustically trying 
to refute him, while Ilford every now and then inter- 
posed by a pointed and bitter interrogation. 


STEPHEN’S COACH. 


89 


When I saw Stephen a week or so after this, I 
saw a change in him. He looked more sad, more 
thoughtful, and did not take quite so rosy a view of 
things. I asked him why it was, but he did not 
speak. Then, when I discovered that he had been at 
Colonel Tempest’s the previous evening, I began to 
wonder. 

As the day wore away, however, I knew that he 
had determined to do something ; and when after 
dinner he asked his uncle for a few minutes’ private 
chat, I anxiously wondered about what it might be. 

“ Private, eh ? ” said Luke. “ Do you mean that 
you wish to keep out Daniel here, your close friend, 
and Ilford, your tutor for the last four years ? ” 

“ I should like just five minutes’ chat with you 
alone first,” said Stephen. 

“ Very well, then,” said Luke ; “ come on. You 
and Daniel,” he continued, speaking to Ilford, “ can 
smoke your cigars on the lawn for five minutes, and 
then we can all have a chat together.” 

With an anxious face Stephen followed his uncle 
into the library, while I walked by the side of Eich- 
ard Ilford up and down the lawn in silence. At the 
end of five minutes Luke appeared, and asked us to 
bring our smokes indoors. 


90 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE QUESTION OF MARRIAGE FROM A CYNIC’S STAND- 
POINT. 

Woman, that fair and fond deceiver, 

How prompt are striplings to believe her ! 


And hear her plight the willing troth ! 
When lo ! she changes in a day. 

Fondly we hope ’t will last for aye, 

This record will forever stand : 

“ Woman, thy vows are traced in sand.” 


Biron. 


E had not been sitting five minutes before we 



were all engaged in an earnest conversation. 


The subject under discussion was — women. I 
hardly know bow it came about. I think we were 
speaking of a young fellow’s chances of success in 
a city, — say London, — when Luke Edgcumbe men- 
tioned the fact that an incumbrance in the shape of 
a wife spelt ruin to any struggling man’s prospects. 
This statement was warmly denied by Stephen, 
whereupon the influence of women on life generally, 
and their peculiar characteristics, became the topic. 

“ I suppose they are necessary for the continuation 
of the race,” said Ilford. “Not that I regard the race 
as being worthy of continuation ; but at the same 
time, if the Bible is any authority, the first woman 
landed the whole lot of us in a pretty mess.” 

“ Would it not be well to keep the Bible out of the 
question ? ” suggested Stephen. 


MARRIAGE FROM A CYNICS STANDPOINT. 91 


“ Certainly, my dear boy. I can’t say that it has 
much weight with me ; still, it is as well to look at 
facts as they stand.” 

“Facts; just so,” replied my friend. 

“ The difficulty is to get at facts where women are 
concerned,” said Ilford. “ They are such bundles of 
‘ make up ’ and sham, and they do the artificial with 
such cleverness, that it is very difficult to find and 
depend on a bit of reality.” 

“ You must have been unfortunate in your 
acquaintances,” suggested Stephen, warmly. 

“ True, my lad,” replied the other, with a great 
deal of apparent nonchalance ; “ most men, when they 
have reached my age, have been unfortunate in their 
acquaintances, especially among women. In fact, I 
never knew a man of fifty who had n’t. Some won’t 
own it, some try and deceive themselves ; but at bot- 
tom we are all alike. Still, they are as they are. 
Non generant aguiloe columhas^ 

“ Every man finds out the pertinence of the old 
fellow’s question who, when he heard of a trouble or 
a row, asked what woman was at the bottom of it,” 
laughed Luke. 

“ But surely,” cried Stephen, “ you, uncle, do not 
look upon women in that way ! I have seen you 
very gallant to them.” 

“It pays, my boy ; and we are all time-servers, all 
time-servers. Besides, women are all very well if 
you give them what they want. Let a woman have 
as much money as she cares to spend, as much 
society as she wants, as many novels as she cares to 
read, a sufficient amount of flattery, and the mini- 
mum of bother and pain, and she ’s all right ; but if 
it’s otherwise — well, the least said the better.” 

“ One would think you never had a mother ! ” 
cried Stephen, starting up, and walking up and down 
the room hastily. 


92 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


Like you, I know little of a mother’s influence,” 
remarked Luke. “ I have seen a good deal of other 
people’s mothers, though.” 

“ But what you say falsifies all experience, all 
history ! ” cried Stephen, his eyes aglow. 

“ Whose experience ? whose history ? ” asked Il- 
ford. “ I have read about women’s wonderful quali- 
ties in your copy-book experience and history ; but 
let any man tell what lies in his heart of hearts, and 
the tale is altered.” 

“The love and purity of England’s motherhood, 
the innocence and truth of her girlhood, are at once 
her strength and her fortress,” said Stephen, some- 
what grandiloquently. 

“ Ay,” said Ilford, “ when you find them. There ’s 
a paper called ‘The British Matron.’ It pretends to 
represent that part of the community after whom 
it is called. But does it ? There ’s not one British 
matron in a hundred but will sell her daughter to 
the highest bidder ; there ’s not one in a hundred of 
the mothers among our middle classes, where our 
greatest virtue is supposed to reside, who, if she 
has to choose between an honest mechanic and an 
old gouty peer, who has spent his life in debauchery, 
but has a plenty of money and an old name, would 
discard the honest mechanic and choose the roue. 
At least, such has been my experience. All this 
high-flown talk about the British matron is wind, my 
lad. As for their daughters, well, there ’s seldom 
much trouble in persuading them to see as their 
dear mammas see.” 

“ It ’s a lie ! ” cried Stephen ; “ that is,” he contin- 
ued, as if in explanation, “ you are mistaken, — you 
must be mistaken. There may be such cases as you 
have mentioned, but they are rare, they are the 
exception. Nothing shall ever destroy my belief in 
the virtue of womanhood.” 


MARRIAGE FROM A CYNIC’S STANDPOINT. 93 


“ Yes, yes, lad,” replied the other, “ women are vir- 
tuous, just as men are, till they are found out, or till 
a sufficiently high price is offered. I daresay now 
that you, being a decent-looking fellow, with the rep- 
utation of having a rich uncle, could get some appar- 
ently nice girl to promise to marry you. She would 
very likely give up some other chap who was not so 
good looking, or whose prospects were not quite so 
good, in order to get you ; but let reverses come for 
you, or let some rich fellow with a handle to his 
name, and a fine old residence to offer, come up, and 
your place would know you no more forever.” 

“ That is monstrous ! ” cried Stephen ; “ it is a libel 
on all that ’s good and true ; ” and yet I thought I 
saw an anxious look in his eyes. 

“ If I were to get married,” laughed Ilford, without 
noticing Stephen’s indignation, “ I should first of all 
expect to be gulled, and should accept it as a part of 
the bargain ; or if I did n’t expect to be deceived, I 
should take the same precautions as some of the 
Eastern dignitaries : I should keep my wife under 
lock and key, but I should be careful that it should 
be one of Chubb’s patents. Even then I should 
know that she’d deceive me if she could.” 

“ Then you would be ” 

“ISTo better than she, my lad, or very little. We 
are nearly all alike.” 

“Evil be to him that evil thinks,” suggested 
Stephen. 

“Just so, lad,” replied the other; “the old French 
proverb is true enough ; but then ninety-nine out of 
every hundred think evil. That’s the vexing part 
of it.” 

“ When I am married,” cried Stephen, “ I will be 
as true and faithful to my wife as the sun.” 

“ Until you find she ’s tired of you.” 

“She never wiU be tired of me. True love is 
never tired.” 


94 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“ Sancta simplicitas” SDeered the other. 

“ Mr. Ilford,” cried Stephen, “ I wonder, believing 
as you do, you do not put an end to your life.” 

“ Have n’t had pluck, niy lad, otherwise I might. 
But look at the matter calmly. Here am I, and 
here ’s your uncle. We ’ve been through the mill ; 
we know life. Once I was as fervent and as trusting 
as you. You are young and inexperienced. Who ’s 
likely to know most — you, or we ? ” 

“ That depends,” replied Stephen. 

“ Of course. No doubt you think you know more 
than we. Young folk always think they know more 
than older people. To you, religious cant, hypoc- 
risy, psalm-singing, gowns and bands, philanthropy, 
and moral clap-trap are all real. At your age, too, 
all women are angels.” 

“ And at yours ? ” 

“ Women. As for the other things, who has n’t 
found them out ? It is the women who keep up the 
religion of the community ; it is the women who sus- 
tain the clerical order ; it is the women who collect 
for the missionaries ; it is the women of both sexes 
who build churches and pose as philanthropists. 
And what is the practical result of it all ? The wo- 
men are the greatest liars, the greatest hypocrites ! ” 

'‘Any one would think you had been injured by- 
women, ” replied Stephen. 

“ My life was made black, ruined by a woman,” he 
said bitterly ; then, as if correcting himself, he said, 

“ nay, through a woman I suffered disillusionment, 
that ’s all. If truth is worth anything, I ought .to 
thank a woman, for she led me to see the truth.” 

The conversation by this time had become ter- • 
ribly in earnest, and even I, who was far less impres- 
sionable than Stephen, was influenced by it. It be- 
gan in a bantering way ; but each of us had become 
serious. A great deal more than I have recorded was 


MARRIAGE FROM A CYNIC’S STANDPOINT. 95 


said on all sides, for I have only written down those 
parts which impressed themselves on my memory. 
I could not help seeing, too, that Stephen felt he had 
by no means the best of the argument ; and yet I ad- 
mired the way in which he held fast to the ideals 
which had been formed in his heart. Womanhood 
to him was something beautiful, sacred ; a woman’s 
virtue and truth were so real to him that upon them 
he would stake his life. They might convince his 
head, his heart was untouched. And yet, even then 
I trembled, lest the time should ever come when he 
should realize the hell of a misplaced trust. But 
then he was confident. 

“ So sure am I,” he replied to a remark of his 
uncle, “ so sure am I of woman’s virtue and woman’s 
truth that I am ready to stake my future on it.” 

“You are just twenty-one and a fool,” replied 
Luke Edgcumbe ; “ but there, Ilford, let ’s talk of 
something else. ‘ A man convinced against his will is 
of the same opinion still ; ’ I suppose we learn in no 
other way but by experience.” 

The conversation turned on other subjects ; but I 
noticed that Stephen was silent. A thoughtful look 
rested on his face, too, as though he were brooding 
over what had been said. For the first time I felt 
they had no right to seek to poison the young fel- 
low’s mind ; and yet, after all, were they right ? 

When I left for home that night, Stephen walked 
a part of the way with me. 

“ Do you think there is any truth in what they 
say?” he said, after we had walked in silence for 
some time. 

“ There is some truth, no doubt,” I replied ; “ but 
I felt all along that they were one-sided.” 

“ Do you know why they talked so ? ” he asked. 

“ No.’’ 

“ I told uncle about Bella to-night.” 


96 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


«Ah!” 

“ That ’s what I wanted to see him about. I felt I 
— I ought to speak to him, and I did n’t care to talk 
about her before — Ilford. I think that’s why he 
started the conversation. He does n’t seem to like 
it.” 

He did n’t give bis consent, then ? ” 

“ Yes, he did, in a fashion.” 

“Well?” 

“ Well, you know, Isabella is a little older than I, 
about a year, and I feel she ought not to be kept 
waiting. Hussey has been asking for her ; he ’s 
fairly well off, is Hussey, and is in a position to 
marry at once. Of course she ’d wait for me until 
she was forty ; but then I have no right to keep her 
waiting.” 

“ What are you going to do ? ” 

“ I am going to London soon, and shall seek ad- 
mission into the Inns of Court. Isabella is anxious 
for me to be a barrister, and I am going to please 
her. It — it seems a fine profession. Uncle is will- 
ing to pay my expenses until I ’m called.” 

“ How long will that take ? ” 

“ I don’t know. Not long, I hope. You see, I Ve 
taken a law degree ; I mean to work hard. I hope 
in a year or so I shall ” 

“ But, my dear fellow, think of the scores of brief- 
less barristers who throng our law courts. You may 
be years before you get the usual quiddam honora- 
rium.” 

“ I shall not be long. Besides, ‘ love in a cottage,’ 
you know.” 

“ But will it not be better to wait a few years 
until you have made a position ? You are both 
young.” 

^ “ Yes, we are 5mung ; but that Hussey is always 

around. Yesterday the Colonel told me that Hussey 


MARRIAGE FROM A CYNIC'S STANDPOINT. 97 

wanted to be his son-in-law at once. Of course, he 
knows nothing of Isabella and me.” 

I did not speak, but I had my doubts. 

“ Of course, Isabella will wait ; but I don’t want 
to place her in a false position. Naturally the Colo- 
nel will want to see her well settled, and Hussey is 
supposed to be a catch.” 

“ Then ? ” 

“ I propose to go to Colonel Tempest to-morrow, 
and tell him of the attachment which has existed 
between us ever since we knew each other ; then I 
shall tell him of my plans and my hopes.” 

“ I suppose your uncle will do something for you ? ” 

“ I dare say, but he says nothing. Uncle Luke, as 
you know, has strange ways. I don’t understand 
him.” 

“ But you need be under no apprehension, Steve,” 
I said. With brains, a good hope, and a true, trust- 
ful girl, nothing should be impossible.” 

“ The grandest girl in England ! ” he cried. “ Bless 

you, I don’t fear anything. As for Hussey 

Still, you know, I don’t want to give the Colonel any 
excuse.”. 

The next day Stephen went to Bloomfields and 
had an interview with the Colonel. That gentleman 
expressed great surprise when he was told of the 
long-standing affection between the young man and 
his daughter. 

“ The ^ly puss ! ” he exclaimed. “Fancy her de- 
ceiving her blind old father like that ! I had almost 
promised Hussey. But, Stephen Temple, my lad, I 

like you, and but there ! Still, can you keep a 

wife ? — liem ! Women can ’t live on nothing, you 
know. Ha, ha ! ” 

Stephen told him what he intended and hoped to do. 

“ That ’s all very well, all very well, — as far as it 
goes. Of course, a barrister is a fine profession. A 
7 


98 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


barrister mixes in the best of society, and with brains 
and influence can make a fine thing. But it takes a 
long time to get on, — years, in fact. I suppose, 
like most young fellows, you are anxious to get mar- 
ried, and — you can ’t do that on nothing. 1 11 
never consent for my daughter — a Tempest — to be 
married to poverty ; no, by Gad ! no. You must 
have something besides that. Your uncle now, 
Stephen Temple, my boy — your uncle now, what 
does he say ? ” 

“ He will pay my initial expenses.” 

“ Initial expenses ; but, but — there. I will think 
of what you say. I will speak to your uncle ; I will 
ride over this afternoon.” 

True to his word, the Colonel went to see Luke 
Edgcumbe, and spoke very touchingly about the 
virgin affection of his daughter for that fine young 
fellow Stephen Temple. 

“ Edgcumbe,” he said with energy, “ there *s Provi- 
dence in it, nothing less. They fell in love with 
each other at first sight — at first sight, and they ’ve 
loved each other for four years. And, sir, I believe 
in marrying for love. I’m an old-fashioned man, 
sir; I believe in love.” 

“So do I, when I see it,” said Luke. 

“ And this is real, no doubt about it. My girl 
would die for your nephew, and all that. What are 
we going to do about it, Edgcumbe ? ” 

“ I suppose they will be fools.” 

“ Ha, ha ! you will have your joke. We can’t 
stop it, however ; it ’s as well trying to stop a stream 
from going down hill. Of course, my girl ’s a Tem- 
pest, and is a catch for any man. But I ’m a broad- 
thinking man myself ; there’s no nonsense about 
' me.” 

“ That ’s why you are willing for her to marry a 
plebeian.” 


MARRIAGE FROM A CYNIC'S STANDPOINT. 99 


“ Your nephew ’s a fine fellow, sir. Come, now, 
how are we to arrange it ? ” 

“ What fortune can you give your daughter ? ” 
said Luke Edgcuinbe, roughly, at the same time care- 
fully watching the Coloners face. 

“ I ’m a poor man, Edgcumbe ; you know it. I be- 
long to an old family, but I ’m poor. Still, a Tem- 
pest is a fit match for any one. My daughter is a 
fortune in herself. She will have as her dowry a 
good old name, good blood, a loving heart, and — and 
— a handsome face and figure. Why, Hussey, who 
has several hundreds a year, has been asking for her ; 
and if I’d only been able to go into society, and 
she ’d had a season or two in London, why, half-a- 
dozen lords would have been at her feet.” 

Luke remained silent. 

“ Come, now,” continued the Colonel. “ Stephen 
Temple has told me about his plans, — reading for 
the bar, and all that ; but a wife can’t be kept on a 
young barrister’s income. What are you going to 
do for him ? Come now, Edgcumbe, say ; ” and the 
Colonel, happier now that the most difficult part of 
his work was accomplished, wiped his heated face 
eagerly. 

“ I can’t say,” said Luke, a thoughtful look in his 
eyes. 

Can’t say ! How, Edgcumbe ? You are a wealthy 
man. A settlement of a few hundreds a year, say a 
thousand, would be nothing to you. You must leave 
your money to him at some time.” 

“ Yes, I shall leave it to him at some time.” 

“ Then why not give him a bit now ? Why keep 
these a — a — loving hearts asunder ? — hem ? ” 

Luke Edgcumbe walked up and down the room 
for a few minutes, as though he were studying a 
doubtful question.; but Colonel Tempest could form 
no conception as to the nature of his thinking. 


100 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“ This is a grave subject,” he said, at length. 
“ Stephen has spoken to me about it, and I have 
promised him nothing more than that I will pay his 
expenses until he is called. Not that I do not in- 
tend doing more than that,” he added quickly. 

“Just so, just so,” said the Colonel, nodding his 
head. 

“ I do not believe much in marrying ; much less in 
early marriages,” he continued. 

“ But happiness, Egcumbe — these young people ; 
we must n’t be hard on them, must we ? ” 

“ Well,” said Luke Edgcumbe, presently, “ I ’ll not 
say what I ’ll give him ; but if he will make a fool 
of himself — well, I like him too much to forsake him, 
and I ’ll do the best I can for him.” 

“ The best you can ! ” cried the Colonel. “ What 
more can they want ? Then it ’s settled.” 

“ I ’ll not help him, beyond paying his expenses, 
until he ’s been called,” said Luke. 

“ But why not ? ” said the Colonel. “ What ’s a 
thousand a year to you ? Why not let it be at 
once ? ” 

Luke Edgcumbe gave the Colonel a curious look, 
for he saw through his plans easily. As usual,, the 
Colonel was short of money, and he saw in his daugh- 
ter’s marriage with Stephen a means of filling his own 
purse. The jam manufacturer laughed as he realized 
how matters stood ; and the other, thinking the laugh 
meant assent, laughed also. 

“ Ah, Edgcumbe, you are a character. But right 
at heart, like the British oak ; right at heart.” 

“ Can anything be more beautiful than a father’s 
love ? ” sneered Luke Edgcumbe when the Colonel 
had gone. “ Can anything be more noble than the 
creature called man, especially if that man be a mem- 
ber of the British aristocracy ? Ah, Stephen will be 
doing a grand thing for himself Ought I to let him, 


xMARRIAGE FROM A CYNIC'S STANDPOINT. 101 

I wonder? for it is doubtful where this arrangement 
will lead him. In spite of myself, I do love the lad, 
if only for his mother sake. If she had only married 
me instead of Stephen, if this boy had only been my 
son instead of my brother’s, I might have found a 
little joy in life. Still, I love the lad, and will it be 
right to let him go on ? Well, I expect I can’t stop 
liim ; besides, it will be an eye-opener to him. He 
will see just what the world is made of ; ” and again 
he looked as though he had to face a great problem. 

A week or two later, Stephen was settled in cham- 
bers in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, where, as he told me, he 
was going to read like grim death for the profession 
Isabella Tempest had chosen for him. 

“ I don’t know what ’s come over my uncle,” he 
wrote ; “ he ’s been acting so strangely lately. But his 
objection to my immediate marriage is becoming less 
and less strong, so that, all being well, I shall be a 
Benedict shortly. Hip, hip, hurrah ! I say.” 

Nevertheless, it was two years before his hopes 
were fulfilled ; and then I, with a strange feeling at 
heart, accepted an invitation to his wedding. 

I suppose the wedding was regarded as a brilliant 
affair. Stephen looked hopeful and happy; Isabella 
Tempest looked extremely handsome and victorious ; 
the Colonel said many pious things about Providence 
and love, and of his firm faith in a union of hearts ; 
while Luke Edgcumbe looked as cynical as usual, but 
said nothing. 

After the wedding breakfast was over, just before 
the young couple started on their honeymoon, they 
found their way into the drawing-room, glad, no doubt, 
to be away from the crowd. 

“ Well, Isabella, my darling,” he cried, “ our doubts 
and fears are all over ; we are happy at last.” 

“ Yes, Stephen.” 


102 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“You don’t repent, do you ?” he said anxiously, as 
though her reply were not as warm as he would have 
liked. 

“ Eepent, Stephen ! Why should I repent ? There ’s 
nothing wrong, is there ? ” 

“ Not that I know of, my darling. It is n’t that, 
but you are so grand, so good, while I — well, I’m 
not worthy of you ; but — but — I do love you with 
all my life. 1 do, I do. You know that, don’t you ? ” 
He was so earnest, so fervent, and his love was so 
real and true that her heart seemed to melt ; for she 
threw her arms around his neck, and laid her beauti- 
ful head on his shoulder. 

“ I ’m not good at all, Stephen,” she said huskily, 
“ not a bit ; but I ’m so glad I am yours. You are 
so brave, so clever, that — that — oh, we shall be 
happy, I ’m sure.” 

His life was a great joy at that moment. No cloud 
seemed to hang in his sky, and his heart’s dearest 
desire was accomplished. What would he not do for 
her ? , 

“ Bella ! ” he cried, “ I ’ll win you a name second to 
none ; I can do it with you by my side. The best 
houses in England shall be opened to us, and you shall 
have all that money can buy. God bless you, my 
darling, for loving me so ! With love such as yours 
to cheer me, nothing is impossible. We may be poor 

for a while, but in a few years ” 

“ Poor, Stephen 1 How can that be ? Your uncle — ” 
“My uncle has promised to help us ; but J want to 
be independent of him, darling. I would rather get 
all you want myself. Oh, it will be grand to think 
that our house, and furniture, and all those things 
you want will be bought by money that I have earned. 
And I will work so hard. I have had all sorts of 
kind things said to me already, darling — and — and 
oh, my love, my beautiful, I am happy ! ” 


MARRIAGE FROM A CYNIC'S STANDPOINT. 103 


So Stephen started his wedded life ; and so, with 
feelings of joy, he drove away for his honeymoon. 
AVhat more could he want ? No wonder he laughed 
at his uncle’s pessimism, no wonder that dark views 
of life were meaningless. He lived in that realm 
where all was song and laughter. 

And yet I, quiet Daniel Eoberts, could not help 
doubting. I could hardly tell why. Still, as I thought 
of the influences which had surrounded his life for 
the past few years, and as I remembered the training 
and associations of his bride, I wondered what the 
end would be. 


PART IL 


ORDEAL. 


CHAPTEE I, 


DISILLUSIONMENT. 


There came a mist and a blinding rain, 
And the world was never the same again. 


TEPHEN EDGCUMBE had been married barely 



o a yeh,r, when an event took place which altered 
the whole course of his life. 

Luke Edgcumbe, jam manufacturer, director of 
companies, and general speculator, failed for a fabu- 
lous sum ! The man who was supposed to possess 
an enormous fortune saw his name gazetted, while 
hundreds of people were dragged down by his 


fall. 


True to his promise, he had offered Stephen a lib- 
eral allowance, who, because of his wife’s wishes, 
accepted it, although he would much rather have 
lived on his own income. Indeed, the question of 
money was a constant bone of contention during the 
first year of their married life. Stephen was not long 
in discovering that his wife was very extravagant in 
her tastes and habits. Her greatest joys were in new 
dresses, theatres, balls, and so forth; and Stephen, 
anxious to please her, gave way to her more than I 
thought would have been the case. He had been 
called to the bar; and although the income he re- 
ceived as a barrister was exceedingly slender, he was 


DISILL USIONMENT. 


105 


able to follow in the footsteps of scores of others, and 
earn a few pounds by journalism, — enough, in fact, 
had his wife been of the same mind as himself, to 
live economically, but comfortably. 

“Isabella,” he would say, “why need we be de- 
pendent on my uncle’s allowance ? Surely we can 
manage on what I receive ? ” 

“ Had you married some one of the frugal order, 
you might, no doubt ; but I don’t choose to.” 

“ But this allowance is to me pauperizing. I would 
rather live on less, and be independent.” 

“ And I ’m not going to give up my comforts for 
the sake of your foolish notions. You will have your 
uncle’s money some day; why not enjoy it now?” 

“ But, Isabella, have you no pride ? ” 

“ Pride ! Yes, too much pride to live as you would 
have me live. I was never accustomed to such 
notions.” 

“ But you had no luxury in your home, Isabella. 
Your father is poor, and why can’t we be contented 
without this allowance from my uncle ? ” 

“ Because I do not choose.” 

“I thought different of you, Isabella. For my 
part, I should be happier if you would agree to dis- 
pense with it.” 

“ And what should we have to live on, pray ? ” 

“ WeU, I shall be getting more cases as time goes 
on, and I am earning a few pounds by journalism. 
Nearly all the young fellows do it, and — I — I like 
it.” 

“ And do you think, Stephen Edgcumbe, that I am 
going to be content to live in such a way as that ? I 
would never have married you if I had known you 
wished me to do such a thing.” 

“ You married me, Bella, for the same reason that I 
married you, — because we loved each other.” 

“ But not to live in poverty.” 


106 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“ I don’t mind poverty, if I have your love.” 

Love counts for little when poverty stares one in 
the face.” 

“Do you mean to say, Bella, that you could not 
love me in poverty ? ” 

“ I mean to say that I would not have married you 
had I not thought you could place me in a comfort- 
able position.” 

“ Then it was not me you cared for ? ” 

“ Of course I cared ; but I ’m like other people, — I 
like a nice home and pleasant surroundings ; and for 
you to talk of doing without your uncle’s allowance 
maddens me.” 

And so Stephen gave in; but this conversation 
was only the beginning of others that followed, in 
which many unkind things were said. Not that 
Stephen regretted his marriage, — he loved his wife 
far too much for that ; but he discovered that wedded 
life was not all roses. His greatest grief was, I am 
inclined to think, that his ideal was shattered. 
Stephen, in spite of his uncle’s sneers and Ilford’s 
cynicism, had up to this time believed implicitly in 
women. He had believed Isabella Tempest to be as 
true as the sunlight, and tliat her love for him was 
real. All through his conversations with his uncle 
and with Ilford, when they had spoken sneeringly of 
women and their virtue, and had described them as 
creatures to be sold to the highest bidder, he had 
thought of the girl he loved, and then all their argu- 
ments had seemed foolish. She was his anchor, his 
fortress; she was the rock of truth on which all 
their lying theories were wrecked. 

Not that he doubted her virtue and honor after she 
had revealed her real nature more clearly to him, but 
the tender bloom was gone ; he had, in fact, ceased 
to be a boy ; he had become a man, — a man, whose 
dream of life was dispelled. 


DISILL USIONMENT. 


107 


Still he worked on bravely. Isabella still loved 
him, — not as be hoped ; but she loved him, and in that 
love he tried to be content. And so the allowance 
his uncle made to him was handed over to her, a 
large part of which, unknown to him, was sent to the 
Colonel. Eespectable firms of solicitors began to 
recognize his abilities, and barristers whose hair had 
grown as gray as their wigs looked upon him as a 
man who had a future. 

“ He *s a bit too sensitive,” they would say, “ and 
has too high a code of honor for this world ; but by 
and by, when his high-flown notions are gone, he ’ll 
take his place in the profession, and a high one 
too.” 

Then his uncle’s crash came, causing a panic in the 
commercial world, and ruining many honest, strug- 
gling tradesmen. At first he could scarcely believe 
it. The thought to the sensitive young fellow was 
horrible. He, who had an inherent hatred of lies and 
fraud of every sort, owed his education, his position, 
his living indeed, to a swindle, a fraud. He happened 
to he out of London when he first heard the news, 
and it staggered him, and made him incapable of 
work. He must go home and speak to his wife, and 
make arrangements with her about the future. On 
his way hack he made calculations with regard to his 
plan of action. He reckoned up his probable income, 
and the cost of housekeeping ; and as he did so, things 
did not appear so bad. After all, he would he happier 
earning his own living than dependent on another’s 
bounty. Isabella would meet the blow bravely ; and 
although they might have to live frugally for a few 
years, he would, with increased stimulus to work, 
carve out a grand future. Indeed, by the time he 
reached London, he was almost glad that the crutch 
upon which he had been leaning had been taken 
away, and he pictured his wife saying brave, com- 


108 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


forting words to him, and standing by his side hope- 
fully in the dark, dreary days. 

When he reached home, he found that her father 
was with Isabella. He, too, had heard of the smash, 
and had come straight to London. The Colonel was 
in a great rage. He stalked up and down the room, 
tugging his moustache fiercely, and swearing with 
great vehemence. 

“ And this is what I gain by associating with those 
beneath me ! ” he cried ; “ this is what comes of mar- 
rying my daughter to a plebeian ! I feared it ; I 
feared it all the way along. But I was blind, blind. 
This is what you ’ve brought my child to, is it ? She 
who might have been a rich woman is penniless.” 

“ I ’m sure. Colonel Tempest, I ’m as deeply grieved 
as you can be,” replied Stephen ; “ but I knew nothing 
how matters stood. My uncle never confided to me in 
any way with regard to his business arrangements.” 

“ What are you going to do ? ” cried the Colonel, 
almost beside himself 

I intend to work very hard. Things may not he 
so bad. I am beginning to get a footing now, and I 
am sure Isabella and I can manage. Indeed, I have 
not wanted my uncle’s allowance all along.” 

'‘Hot wanted your uncle’s allowance! Well, the 
money is dirty enough ; but not want it ! Are you a 
Eothschild, then, that you talk so ? You ’ve married 
a gentleman’s daughter, young fellow. You ’ve mar- 
ried a Tempest, and you wanted to do without your 
uncle’s allowance ; how much have you to keep house 
on ? What have you to maintain the daughter of 
such a family as mine ? ” 

“ Well, I find that I can manage to scrape together, 
say, a couple of hundred a year.” 

“ A couple of hundred a year, you young scoundrel I 
And do you mean to have the impudence to pretend 
to keep my daughter on that ? ” 


DISILL USIONMENT. 


109 


" It ’s very little, I know ; but with that, even, we 
can hold on till better days come.” 

Better days ! bah ! Oh, curse you, I say ; curse 
the day when I spoke to your villainous uncle. Oh, 
that I, a gentleman, a colonel in her Majesty’s army, 
a Tempest, should have soiled my fingers by touch- 
ing such a dirty blackguard ! ” 

“This is hardly the place for Billingsgate lan- 
guage, Colonel Tempest,” said Stephen j “ besides, 
Isabella, I am sure, does not feel as you do. It is 
for her to find fault, and not you.” 

All the time Isabella had stood- by without speak- 
ing ; but at this she also took part in the conversation. 

“ I say what my father says,” she said passion- 
ately. “You seem to forget, Stephen Edgcumbe, 
that I am a lady ; and it was only for the fact of the 
reports of your uncle’s money that we noticed him 
or you. Do you think I would have associated my 
name with yours if you had been poor ? Do you 
think I would have married the son of a Dissenting 
minister, but for the fact of what we heard about 
your uncle ? ” 

This brutality staggered Stephen. For the first 
time he saw the mask drarwn from his wife’s face ; 
she was not loving, as he had thought. She had no 
care for him at all ; he was simply the prospective 
heir of a rich man, and so she had married him. 

“And you never loved me ? ” he said. 

“ Love ! ” she cried passionately. “ What was 
there in you, with your sanctimonious notions, to 
love ? But you have deceived us all ; you have 
ruined my life ; you have made me a pauper.” 

“ Yes ; and to think that Hussey, wlio has a 
thousand a year in his own right, wanted to marry 
her ! ” cried the Colonel ; “ a thousand a year sure. 
Not enough to do much with, it is true, but enough 
to make things pleasant. But I trusted a plebeian 


110 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


villain, a tradesman, because it was reported be had 
ten thousand a year, and that you would have it all.” 

In their anger and chagrin, they had lost complete 
control over themselves, and scarcely knew what 
they were saying. All that was coarse and repul- 
sive in their natures came to the surface, and 
Stephen’s heart grew sick with pain. 

“ But,” cried the young man, “ would you have 
married Hussey rather than me ? You told me you 
loved me for myself alone.” 

“ You have no right to ask me that ! ” she cried. 

You who are a pauper, a mere quill-driver, have 
no right to ask such a question. He is a gentle- 
man, anyhow, and would scorn to marry under false 
pretences.” 

“ I married under no false pretences ! ” cried Ste- 
phen. “ I told you that I expected to work for my 
own living, and to carve out my own position, and I 
can do it; ay, and I will do it, if you will be fair 
with me. We can go into cheap apartments; and if 
we are careful, we shall, in a few years, rise above 
difficulties.” 

“ And do you think,” she cried, that I will bury 
myself with you, — that I will live in poverty with 
you ? I never, never will ! ” 

“ By Gad, she shall not ! ” cried the Colonel. “ Oh, 
what a fool I was not to see this ! And the worst of 
all is that this fool has no proper pride, no sense of 
what ’s the proper thing.” 

“ It seems to me,” said Stephen, '' that the proper 
thing to do is, meet the matter bravely. After all, 
we are not the worst sufferers. We are young, and 
have health and strength. I trouble more about the 
poor fellows who have been ruined by my uncle’s 
failure.” 

' “ What are a lot of shopkeepers to me ? They 
have n’t the same feelings that we have.” 


DISILL USIONMENT. 


Ill 


A knock came to the door. It was a servant bear- 
ing some letters. Stephen took them, and, after look- 
ing at the writing, opened one eagerly. “ Here is a 
letter from my uncle,” he said ; “ let me see what he 
says.” 

“ Yes, let 's hear what he says,” cried the Colonel ; 
“ but there can be no good news. Everything will 
be seized, and the villain will not be able to pay 
more than about seven shillings in the pound, so the 
papers say.” 

“ He is coming here to-morrow morning,” said 
Stephen, “ and then will explain how matters stand.” 

“ Coming here to-morrow morning, is he ? Then I 
will come too. I will face the blackguard ; I ’ll let 
him know what it is to meet a gentleman ; I ’ll — 
I ’ll But what does he say ? Bead it ! ” 

Stephen threw him the letter, which Colonel 
Tempest read hastily : — 

Dear Steve, — You will doubtless have heard of the 
smash. I will call and see you, to-morrow about ten. 
Don’t be downhearted. Things may not be so bad as you 
think. 

Luke Edgcumbe. 

The Colonel looked less savage. “ ‘ May not be so 
bad,’ eh?” he muttered. “Well, I’ll be here. Do 
you hear ? I shall be here.” 

“ Come, by all means,” said Stephen. “ I ’m glad 
things may not be so bad, after all. Anyhow, I hope 
the poorest among the sufferers may be helped.” 

“ D the sufferers ! ” cried the Colonel. “ Come, 

Bell, let’s go out somewhere. You shall not stay 
here with this hypocritical young rascal, with his 
silly nonsense.” 

“But surely, Isabella, you’ll not go?” cried 
Stephen. “ You ’ll stay with me ; there are many 
things to speak about.” 


112 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


For answer, she gave him a look which made the 
young man’s heart feel as though an icy hand had 
gripped it, and a few minutes later he heard her go 
out with her father. 

For hours Stephen sat like one stunned, not be- 
cause of his uncle’s failure, but because of the rev- 
elation of his wife’s real feeling towards him. He 
could not understand it ; he could scarcely realize it, 
save for the pain that had gripped his heart. He had 
held on through the year, in spite of the difference of 
opinion that had existed between them. He had 
been led to make allowances for her feelings with re- 
gard to their differences about money ; perhaps, after 
all, it was natural that she should look upon what 
Luke Edgcumbe had given him as her right, and per- 
haps, too, his desire to be independent, and to work 
for his own fortune, was, to say the least, quixotic ; 
but her unblushing admission that she would never 
have married him but for his money seemed to shat- 
ter all possibility of joy or happiness. He saw her 
now as she really w^as, — a loveless woman of the 
world, caring only for her own comfort and pleasure. 
He was but a tool ; she cared nothing for him, noth- 
ing at all, — nay, because of misfortune she hated 
him. She, who he had thought would remain by his 
side, cheering him and comforting him in the dark 
days, had taken sides against him, had scornfully 
abused him. And yet he loved her. He had given 
his all to her, — the warm, ardent love of his life. 
He had dreamed of winning a great name for her, of 
placing her in a high position through his own un- 
aided efforts. He had heard with gladness the kind 
things said about him ; his heart had been cheered 
by the respect his seniors paid to him ; he saw in it 
ail future brightness and prosperity. He knew it 
would come. All he had to do was to work, and 
wait, and hope. And he was working manfully, he 


DISILL USIONMENT. 


113 


was waiting bravely, he was hoping joyfully. For 
was not Isabella his wife, and did he not love her like 
his own life? But now his dream was dispelled, his 
hopes shattered, and the beautiful creature he called 
wife was selfish, coarse, cruel, caring only for herself, 
her pleasure, her position, her comforts. God have 
mercy upon him ! He remembered his uncle’s ad- 
vice now ; he called to mind what Ilford had said ; 
and for the first time he began to believe those dark 
things which they had taught was the truth concern- 
ing life. 

But no, he could not believe it. There must be a 
mistake somewhere. He must make allowances. He 
must remember the keen disappointment, he must 
think of his wife’s utter abhorrence of poverty and 
hardship. He must not forget her education, her 
training. Her father had poisoned her mind; she 
would get over her anger in an hour or two ; she 
would come back and tell him that she was grieved 
that she had spoken in haste, and that her heart was 
all his. Ah, yes, he would hope on, and he had been 
wrong to judge so hastily. 

When night came on, he waited eagerly for his 
wife’s footsteps ; but he waited in vain. She did not 
come ; she left him alone. Still, he was hopeful ; she 
was under her father’s influence, and he would keep 
her from returning to him that evening. Throughout 
the whole night he did not sleep, and when morning 
came it was with a sad heart that he made prepara- 
tions to receive his uncle. 

At ten o’clock precisely, Luke Edgcumbe made his 
appearance, and he had scarcely seated himself when 
Colonel Tempest and his daughter appeared. The 
Colonel nodded distantly to the men, and with a great 
deal of fussiness began to pull off his gloves, while 
Luke Edgcumbe watched him narrowly. 

“I have decided to be present at your inter- 
8 


114 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


view with your nephew,” said Colonel Tempest to 
Luke. 

“Whether you are wanted or not, I suppose?” 
remarked Luke. 

“ That ’s it. Honest men are seldom wanted at such 
conferences ; but I have a daughter, sir, a daughter ; ” 
and he struck his breast theatrically. 

“ Yes, I perceive,” said Luke. 

“ Well, sir, what are you going to do ? ” 

All this time Stephen had watched Isabella nar- 
rowly, and hungered for a kind word from her. 

“ Have you no word for me after staying away all 
night ? ” he said ; but she only drew closer to her 
father, without speaking. 

“ Steve, my lad,” said Luke, “ do you wish me to 
talk of our affairs before this specimen of the British 
aristocracy ? ” 

“ I think it is right you should, uncle,” replied 
Stephen. “ I am Isabella’s husband.” 

The jam manufacturer hesitated a moment, and 
seemed to be in doubt as to what he should do. 

“ Who has a right if I have not ? ” said the Colonel, 
in a loud voice. “ Has not your nephew taken away 
my daughter from her loving father ? Has he not 
associated my name with that of a bankrupt ? 
The name of Tempest has never been associated 
with dishonor before. Trade was bad enough; but 
trade and dishonor together — ah, what a fool I ’ve 
been I ” 

“ You would n’t mind both if there were a thou- 
sand or two a year at the end of them,” sneered Luke. 

“ How dare you, sir ! ” roared Colonel Tempest. 
“ But tell me some of the particulars of this disgrace- 
ful business. In my daughter’s name, I demand to be 
told.” 

“ There are full particulars in the newspapers,” said 
Luke, bitterly. 


DISILL USIONMENT. 


115 


" I Ve read the newspapers, and it ’s well for you 
that my name is kept out of them.”* 

“I don't know that your name is of sufficient 
importance to put in,” replied Luke; “you'd have 
only been too glad to have a finger in the pie, if I 
would have let you.” 

“ You, you 're a villain ! ” gasped the Colonel. 

“ Am I ? Well, we ’ll see what you are,” replied 
Luke. “ Steve, my boy, if you still wish these peo- 
ple to hear, I am prepared, in their presence, to tell 
you what I am willing to do.” 

They waited for him to proceed. 


116 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE PARTING OF THE WAYS. 


And constancy lives in realms above ; 

And life is thorny, and youth is vain. 

Coleridge : Christahel. 

T HAVE known that this smash was inevitable 

X about a year and a half,” remarked Luke, 
quietly ; “ I thought it might come years ago.” 

“ A year and a half ! ” roared the Colonel ; " a year 
and a half ! Before the wedding 1 Why did you not 
let us know then ? ” 

“ Because — well, I did n’t choose.” 

“ You scheming villain ! ” gasped the Colonel. 

“ Yes, I knew what you wanted,” replied Luke, 
“ and I was in two minds about letting the boy make 
a fool of himself. But I was n’t quite prepared to 
let the world know my position then, and I knew 
that all of you wanted the matter to be settled 
quickly, and I decided that on the whole I had bet- 
ter let you have your own way. Steve will be none 
the worse for this eye-opener in a year or two ; while 
as for you and your precious daughter. Tempest, you 
are not worth thinking about.” 

“ Not worth thinking about I ” gasped the Colonel. 

“ No ; and for this reason. You have no feelings 
of honor to hurt ; while a thousand or two will al- 
ways cool your anger.” 

Brutal as was this reply, the Colonel, to Stephen’s 
surprise, looked less furious. 


THE PARTING OF THE WAYS. 


117 


‘‘ What are you going to do ? ” he said, after mus- 
ing a minute or two. “ Look here, Edgcurnbe, con- 
sider my position, and then think how I must feel. 
In a big smash such as yours, — and, after all, it 
is nH a petty bankruptcy, — you must have saved a 
good deal from the general ruin. Such fellows as 
you always do.’* He spoke as though a new 
idea had struck him, and as though he wanted to be 
conciliatory. 

I am not in a position to enter into my affairs,” 
replied Luke ; “ but I will say this : I see no reason 
why Steve can’t have an allowance as before, not 
quite so large, perhaps, but nearly ; at any rate, 
enough to keep the wolf from the door.” 

“ Edgcurnbe,” said Colonel Tempest, “ forgive the 
rash words of a fond father ; I might have known 
that you would do right. Bella, my dear, you’ll 
be saved from disgrace, after all, and you and 
Stephen Temple can live on here as before. I was 
wrong to be so rash and hasty ; I was wrong to speak 
so without considering what such a man as Edg- 
cumbe would do.” 

A smile curled Luke Edgcumbe’s lips as he spoke, 
and 'he looked towards Stephen curiously. 

“ You see things are not so very bad, after all, 
Steve,” said Luke, and this little affair of yours can 
be patched up easily.” 

“ Might I ask what sum you intend paying your 
creditors ? ” asked Stephen. 

“ A very creditable bankruptcy, my boy ; I think 
we shall manage over a third, — say seven and six- 
pence in the pound.” 

“ And yet you can afford to give me nearly a 
thousand a year ? ” 

Well, you see, my boy, as the Colonel said, this 
is not a small affair. My business connections were 
very numerous, and so I have been able to manage 


118 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


better than if it had been one little trumpery busi- 
ness.” 

The Colonel nodded his head with a great deal of 
satisfaction. 

“ Personally,” said Stephen, quietly, “ I must de- 
cline to take one farthing of such money ; and as the 
one largely responsible for my wife’s transactions, I 
must insist that she also refuse to receive anything 
from you.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” gasped the Colonel. 

“Just that,” replied Stephen. “What right have 
I to take nearly a thousand a year from my uncle 
when he is paying his creditors only seven and six- 
pence in the pound ? ” 

“ And do you mean that you’ll reduce my daughter 
to poverty rather than take nearly a thousand a year 
when it comes in your way ? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ What — what — do you intend doing, then ? ” 

“ The best I can. We can go to a part of the city 
where rents are low, and I can manage to do fairly 
well. Bella must give up her luxuries, but we can 
live in comparative comfort.” 

The Colonel’s face grew purple, while Luke Edg- 
cumbe remained as cynical and watchful as ever. He 
was evidently enjoying the situation. 

“ She shall never do it ! ” roared the Colonel, at 
length ; “ never ! This is your idea of loving and 
honoring my daughter, is it ? This the outcome of 
all the love you have professed ! ” 

“ Yes.” Then, turning to his wife, he said, “ You 
see that this is right, don’t you, Bella ? You have 
been led to see differently and think differently since 
last night. What you said then was without meaning. 
It is all well, Bella ; we ’ll conquer the world yet, for 
we love each other in spite of all, don’t we ? ” and 
there was a yearning look in his eyes. 


THE PARTING OF THE WAYS. 


119 


But she never moved from the Colonel’s side. “ I 
say what my father says,” was her answer. 

Stephen buried his face in his hands, and for a 
minute he was incapable of thinking. 

"Steve, are you sure you know what you are 
doing ? ” asked Luke. " Come, what is the use of 
these high-fangled notions ? You see, the Colonel 
has no scruples, and you know what a religious man 
he is ; why, then, should you bother ? ” 

“ Uncle,” said Stephen, " you may act as you please. 
You do not profess a code of honor, hut I ’ll starve 
before I ’ll do as you ask me. My only pain is that 
I have been educated by money which really belongs 
to others.” 

" Sad, is n’t it,” replied Luke, half sneeringly, half 
pathetically. " My lad, the world ’s all alike, and 
civilization is built up on a system of robbery, and 
all money is filthy with what you call injustice. 
Your father’s salary, which paid for your schooling 
years ago, was contributed by people who had to be 
dishonest in getting it. All men are dishonest ; only 
some men manage it without being brought into pub- 
lic notoriety. The truth is, I have been beaten by a 
man who got the whip-hand of me ; but I ’ll be even 
with him yet. Meanwhile, I and you must take the 
world as we find it. Honesty and honor are matters 
of degree, matters of opinion, and I should be a fool 
if I swallowed a quixotic code of honor, a code which 
nobody practises, although so many profess it, if 
thereby I lose my all, and am dragged in the dust. 
There now, Steve, this is not sentimental talk, but 
it’s common sense. Be comfortable, lad, and let 
fools wag their tongues.” 

" ISTo ; I shall not touch one penny.” 

I will not further describe what took place ; enough 
to say that, in spite of Stephen’s pleadings, his wife 
left him with scornful and angry reproaches, declaring 


120 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


that she would never see him or communicate with 
him again ; while the Colonel, purple with passion, 
continued to pour out reproaches upon him, and to 
threaten him with all sorts of calamities. 

I, Daniel Eoherts, was at this time an assistant to 
a medical practitioner in Battersea, London, S. W. I 
had taken my degree at Edinburgh, and had engaged 
to place my learning and ability at the service of I)r. 
Blunt in particular, and the Battersea people in gen- 
eral, for a sum which many of the assistant-masters 
under the London School Board would have despised. 
Still, I was able to engage a couple of rooms, for which 
I paid twelve shillings a week, and to live with some 
degree of comfort. It is true, I saw but little possi- 
bility of becoming a renowned physician by staying 
in Battersea ; but I saw the possibility of bread and 
cheese, and there was also a chance, if I were patient, 
of succeeding Dr. Blunt when he should be pleased 
to retire. 

I had not been invited to Stephen’s house during 
his married life, owing, I was afterwards told, to his 
wife’s unwillingness to receive me. I constantly 
received letters from my friend, however ; and so, on 
the morning following the episode I have just related, 
when I saw an envelope addressed in his handwriting, 
I opened it without any presentiment of coming evil. 
When I had read it, however, I was for a time almost 
stunned with astonishment and grief. Bad as my 
fears might have been, I had never dreamed that his 
wife would leave him for any cause whatever ; and 
although he tried in his letter to shield her, I could 
not help seeing how things stood. For a time I knew 
not what step to take. I could not go and see him, 
as my duties just then prohibited it ; but I decided to 
write him, and ask him to share a bachelor’s hospi- 
tality. By return of post I received a reply from 


THE PARTING OF THE WAYS. 


121 


him, saying that • as soon as he had arranged his 
affairs he would come and stay a few days with 
me. 

I must confess to a shock when he at length came. 
I did not imagine that he could look so haggard and 
pale ; but he assured me that he was very well, and 
that he should not seek my professional advice. It 
was a long time before he would talk at all ; but by 
and by, when the roar of the traffic had ceased, and 
the clocks were striking midnight, he became more 
communicative. 

“ Dan,” he said, would you mind my being a fel- 
low lodger with you ? ” 

“Nothing would delight me more, old fellow; but 
how can you manage it ? ” 

“I have sold the furniture of the — the other 
house,” he said, without seeming to heed my question, 

“ Yes ? ” I said interrogatively. 

“I was obliged to, you know; besides, I had — 
no right to it.” 

I did not speak, 

“ I am afraid, too, that my sun has gone down at 
the bar.” 

“Why?” 

“ I bear an unfortunate name. My uncle’s smash 
is such a big affair that everybody fights shy of me.” 

“ It ’s a shame,” I said. 

“ I suppose it ’s natural,” was his somewhat bitter 
reply ; “ still, I can manage to pick up a living. I 
write a little for the papers, you know ; and I dare 
say I shall be able to pick up a few cases. Battersea 
is a long way from Lincoln’s Inn Fields, but not out 
of reach altogether ; besides, I want your friendship 
badly, — I mean your society and your sympathy.” 

“ I shall be only too glad for you to -remain with 
me ; you know I shall be always your friend, and my 
landlady wiU be pleased to let you have a bedroom ; 


122 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


but you ’ll be out of the swim for everything. No 
one of note lives in Battersea/’ 

“ At any rate, I ’ll stay a month or so ; and I shall 
see how it works by that time,” he said wearily. 

And so it was settled. We were, for a few^ weeks, 
to share the sitting-room I had rented, while a bed- 
room adjoining my own was set apart for his use. 
During the day, I saw little or nothing of him ; but 
when our work was over, we were much together. 
He scarcely ever spoke of his year of married life ; 
indeed, as the days, went by, he became less and less 
of a talker, while his face became more careworn 
and sad. 

“ Come, Steve,” I said to him one day, “ you must 
not yield to sad feelings in this way ; there ’s nothing 
gained by showing the white feather. Fight the 
matter, old boy, to the death.” 

“ What ’s the use of fighting ? ” was his query. 

“Every use,” I replied. “You are young, and the 
years to come will make all things right.” 

“ Do you think so ? ” he asked, with a show of 
interest. 

“ I do, indeed.” 

“ I wish I could think so.” He paused a minute, 
and then continued : “ Dan, when you lose trust in 
what is dearest to you, — when the thing you thought 
pure and spotless is revealed to you as sordid and — 
and unlike what you thought, — when your trust has 
been betrayed, — when you look around and find that 
men everywhere are alike, that everybody is selfish 
and poor, — when you see nothing before you but 
dreariness, — what then ? ” 

“ I should say that you have n’t seen the whole of 
life,” 1 replied. 

“ That is my one ray of light at present,” he said ; 
“sometimes it disappears, and I am wholly in the 
dark ; but it comes back again, and then I try to hope. 


THE PARTING OF THE WAYS. 


123 


Blit wliat is the light ? Is it a reality, or do I create 
it myself ? ” 

He was terribly in earnest, and I saw that no con- 
ventional words of comfort would have any effect 
upon him. 

"‘God’s in His heaven. All’s right with the 
world,’” I said, remembering Browning’s "Pippa 
Passes.” 

“ It sounds all right,” he said. " I ’ve been trying 
to comfort myself with the thought during the last 
fortnight, since — since — she ’s left me. For nights 
I did not sleep, because I felt no place on which I 
could rest. I tried to get down on solid rock, and in 
doing so everything went. All the orthodox theories 
of life became false as lies. The world’s moralities, 
the world’s hopes and aims, appeared to me to con- 
tain only the quintessence of selfishness. The reli- 
gions of the world became only feeble efforts to manu- 
facture hopes to take away the pain of the black 
logic of life. But I won’t tell you all I ’ve gone 
through during the last fortnight; only, Dan, the 
future offers nothing to me, life offers nothing worth 
the grasping, while it seems to me that the cynicism 
of my uncle and my old tutor is the only reasonable 
solution of life.” 

" Solution ? ” 

" Yes ; you put your finger on the weakness. 
There is no solution. At present, everything seems 
a muddle, worse than a muddle. Life is black, hope- 
less — worse than hopeless. Everywhere it is pain, 
misery, woe, and afterwards, nothing. Everybody 
comes into the world with desire. In nine cases 
out of ten the desire is never satisfied ; and when the 
one in ten does get the object of his desires, he is 
disappointed, for it yields him nothing of what he 
expected. Indeed, the one is about as happy as the 
other. You remember what my uncle and Ilford 


124 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


used to say about illusions ; well, it seems that my 
time of disillusionment has come, and I see things in 
all their ghastliness and nakedness.” 

“ May not your pain and sorrow have blinded you 
to the truth ? ” I suggested. 

“ I have thought of that,” he replied ; but some- 
how it brings no comfort. Before my trouble I just 
shut my eyes. I was happy, or at least I persuaded 
myself that I was, which was just the same. When 
I saw pain, misery, crime, I would not seek to under- 
stand their meaning ; I thought of my own happi- 
ness, I saw my own bright prospects, I believed that 
my wife loved me. My own circumstances made 
me look at life through rose-colored glasses, — that 
is, when I looked at life at all. When Uncle Luke’s 
failure became known, the glasses were taken away, 
and I was obliged to look at life as it is.” 

‘‘We look at everything through a medium,” I 
said. “ What is your medium now ? Is it not 
disappointment and misplaced love ? Wait for time 
to do its work before you come to conclusions.” 

“ You are right, Dan ; I intend to do that. Indeed, 
I have been trying get a working theory of life. I 
can’t look at life as some do; mine is an earnest 
nature ; and although I have been living in a fool’s 
paradise, now that I am driven out from it, I am 
going to try and get at some little grain of truth 
amidst the heaps of lies.” 

“ But how are you going to get this truth ? And 
what is your object ? ” I said curiously. 

He looked at me strangely and earnestly, as though 
he were studying me, but he did not speak for some 
minutes. After a while he said slowly, — 

“ This Battersea contains a little world of itself, 
does, n’t it ? ” 

“ The poor are here,” I said ; “ the poor and the 
needy, the hard- worked, the sorrowing. The rich are 


THE PARTING OF THE WAYS. 


125 


very few ; they don’t come here, the life does n’t suit 
them. The bad are here ; ay, and the good too.” 

“ You have a great many patients, Dan ? ” 

“ Scarlet fever is pretty prevalent just now,” I 
replied ; “ and most of Dr. Blunt’s cases are left to me.” 

“ And the people among whom you go are poor ?. ” 

“ Very poor, mostly.” 

The poorest ? ” 

“ No ; the poorest can’t afford a doctor, except the 
parish doctor; but I am afraid they find it very 
difficult to get him.” 

“ Ah ! ” He mused a second, then he said, “ Dan, 
I should like to accompany you on your rounds 
to-morrow.” 

“ Very well,” I said ; I shall be glad to have you.” 

I had scarcely spoken, when I heard the door-bell 
ring ; and a minute later my landlady entered, saying 
that a woman wanted to see me. 

“ Show her in,” I said. 

A woman of about fifty entered, whom I imme- 
diately recognized. 

“ It ’s my Lize,” she said, without hesitation. “ I 
went down to the old ’un’s surgery, and he told me 
to come to you.” 

“ Is she worse ? ” I asked. 

“ Been spittin’ a lot of blood ; so I jist gives Jim 
the dish to hold, while I runs off for the doctor. I 
runs for the parish one, same as I did yesterday, but 
he would n’t come ; he said it were n’t reg’lar, and 
so I ’ve come to you again.” 

“ Very well,” I said ; “ I ’ll come in a few minutes.” 

She went away, while I began to pull on my boots. 

“ I should like to go with you, if I may, Dan,” 
said Steve. 

“ Certainly, old man ; but I am afraid you ’ll not 
be exhilarated by what you see and hear.” 

"Nevertheless, I’ll go,” he replied. 


126 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


After a few minutes’ walk we found ourselves in 
Battersea Park Eoad, along which we walked for a lit- 
tle way, and then turned down one of the streets which 
branch from it. All these streets are occupied by 
working people: in one or two of them the houses 
are fairly well built ; most of them are squalid and 
comfortless; all of them are “long lines of ugliness.” 
A large number of these dwellings is occupied by 
several families, some having one, a few having two 
rooms, wherein to cook, wash, eat, drink, and sleep. 

The street we entered was rather worse than most 
of those I have mentioned. The houses were older, 
lower, and worse built. It was miserably lighted, 
and it was some little time before I could find the 
house in which the sick girl lay ; but I discovered it 
at length, and we entered. The family to which she 
belonged occupied two rooms on the ground floor. 
In passing through the living room, we saw a man 
sitting at the end of a table in a half-drunken sleep ; 
near him were a girl of fourteen and a boy of twelve. 
The atmosphere was sickly in the extreme, — so 
much so that for a little time we found it difficult to 
breathe. There was not a single article in the whole 
place which denoted comfort ; but I need not enlarge 
on that. The room was a specimen of hundreds of 
others within three minutes’ walk ; and perhaps the 
people living in them were so unused to comfort that 
they did not feel the need of what many regard as 
essential to existence. 

“ She ’s in there,” said the girl, pointing to the back 
room ; “ mother ’s there too ; so ’s Jim.” 

We entered the bedroom, and were more than ever 
impressed with the impurity of the atmosphere and 
the squalor of the surroundings. The apartment 
could not have been more than twelve feet square, 
yet three beds were placed in it, on which eight peo- 
ple had to sleep ; and one of them was sick, dying of 


THE PARTING OF THE WAYS. 


127 


consumption. In one corner of the room, on a mis- 
erable heap of dirt, with two children lying by her 
side, I found my patient. She had just recovered 
from a fit of coughing and blood-spitting, and was 
now breathing with difficulty. She might have been 
twenty years of age, and was of the usual type of 
street girl. Marks of an evil life were stamped on 
her face, and between her gasps she uttered language 
which I will not write here. 

‘^Will she get better?” said the mother to me 
after a while. 

“ She is very ill,” I replied ; ‘‘ both lungs are badly 
affected, and the disease has iividently been hastened 
on by the life she has been living.” 

“ Our Liza was allays a bit flighty,” she replied. 

“ What has she been doing these last few years ? ” 
asked Stephen. 

The woman, thinking him an. assistant doctor, 
answered readily : — 

She ran the streets like the others till she was 
thirteen, an’ was out of the school officer’s clutches, 
then I gits ’er a place to take care o’ children. But 
our Liza would n’t, you know ; she was that wantin’ 
her liberty, she was, — and so she could n’ keep her 
places. Then after a bit she gits into a laundry ; 
but ’twas very hard work, and she hooked that. 
Then she stops out late at night and took to drinkin', 
so that she could n’t git no work at all.” 

“ And then ? ” 

“ Well, then she went wild.” 

“ And you knew of this ? ” 

“ How could I ’elp knowin’ ? ” 

“ But why did n’t you stop her ? ” 

“ Liza was allays strong-willed,” said the woman, 
with a whine ; “ and she would n’t take no notice of 
me. I says to her, ^ Lize,’ I says, ‘ you ’ll be better 
off in service,’ I says ; but ’t were no use. Besides, 


128 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


she could n’t git service jist then, so I lets her 
go till she could get a place. That ’s all.” 

We left soon after, Steve’s face hard and his teeth 
set. We walked a few steps side by side in silence, 
then he broke out. 

"Dan, I’ve shut myself away from this kind of 
life, and I don’t know much about it; but — but 
surely there can’t be many such cases as that 1 ” 

"I am afraid they are not uncommon,” I said 
sadly. 

" No, no, Dan ; a mother to talk like that ! ” 

We passed by half a dozen girls, from fifteen to 
seventeen years of age, who were shrieking with 
laughter and making coarse jokes. 

"I’m afraid there are many mothers who care very 
little for their children,” I said ; " some have drunk 
away all affection, all moral sense.” 

" Stop ! ” cried my friend ; “ listen to that. No, no ; 
’t is too horrible ! ” 

I stopped and listened. 


SHRIMP, 


129 


CHAPTER III. 


SHRIMP. 


Oh ! thou art like a flower ; 

So fair, so pure thou art ; 
I look on thee, and sorrow 
Lies heavy on my heart. 


Heine ; To a Child. 



‘WO doors from us stood a woman who with one 


i hand supported herself by holding an iron bar 
which formed a railing to some steps, and with the 
other grasped the arm of a girl about fifteen years of 
age. The child was small for her years, and at first 
sight did not look more than twelve. 

“ Where *s that shillin’ I told yer to git ? ” said the 
woman, with an oath. 

I could n’ git one,” replied the child. ‘‘ I could n’ 
sell no matches, an’ I only got this ’ere tuppence.” 

The woman clutched the money eagerly. She had 
evidently been drinking, and eagerly craved for more 
intoxicants. 

“ I told yer to git a bob,” she snarled ; “ be off an’ 
git it sharp.” 

“ I can’t git it to-night. Nobody ’ll buy matches 
to-night ; besides, if they would, I ain’t got ’nough to 
make a shillin’.” 

“ Then git it some other way.” 


“I can’t.” 


Then the woman uttered words which I will not 
write, while the child, with a look of terror on her 
face, broke away from her grasp. 


9 


130 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS: 


‘‘Bring that bob to the (naming a public- 

house), “ or I ’ll break every bone in your body,” she 
snarled, with an oath. 

“ No ; not that, not that ! ” sobbed the child. 

“ Come with me to the pub now, then,” said the 
woman, “ and I ’ll let ye off.” 

“ No, no ! ” cried the girl ; “ I can’t go there.” 

“ Then see you git it somewheres else,” she said, 
with a string of oaths. “Be off at once, now. I 
got many a shillin’ afore I was your age as easy 
as winkin’, and you could, too, if you wasn’t so 
finnikin.” 

I will not relate the conversation which followed. 
I have said enough to reveal the ghastly purpose in 
the woman’s mind, enough to show that she was 
willing — nay, anxious — to sacrifice everything to 
gratify a base appetite. 

At length she staggered away to the nearest public- 
house, uttering curses all the time, while the child 
went sobbing along the street. 

“We must do something for her,” said Steve ; 
“ there ’s no knowing what she may drive the child 
to, if help is n’t given now.” 

“ Very well,” I said ; “ I will speak to her.” 

We were still in the side street, where there was 
little or no traffic, and so she heard me easily. She 
turned around fearfully, and with a sob. 

“We have just heard what your mother said, and 
we would like to help you.” 

She still shrank timidly from us ; but, instinctively 
feeling that we were friends, she said, — 

“ Please, sir, she is n’t my mother, she ’s my aunt. 
Mother died three years ago, and left me with her.” 

“ Where do you live ? ” 

She pointed to the house by which they had been 
standing. 

“ And your name ? ” 


SHRIMP. 


131 


'‘They call me Shrimp,” said the child. “Her 
name ” — pointing towards the public-house — “ is 
Hillyer ; that ’s what people call me.” 

“ And where ’s your father ? ” 

The child shook her head. “ Nobody knows,” she 
said. 

“ Have you been to school ? ” 

“ I did till two years ago. I go to Sunday-school 
now.” 

“Where?” 

She mentioned one of the Sunday-schools in Bat- 
tersea Park Poad. 

“ A good lady teaches me there,” she continued ; 
“ that ’s why, — why ” And she burst into tears. 

“ Would you like to go away from here ? ” 

Her tears dried in a minute. “ Where ? ” she 
asked. 

“ To some place where you could be put in the 
way of getting a respectable living.” 

“ Yes, sir. Oh, I would ! ” she said ; “ but how can 

I*” 

Although reared in the midst of vice, in a neigh- 
borhood where children grow old so very, very soon, 
she spoke in a frank, childish way. I saw by the aid 
of a gas-lamp, too, that she was by no means ugly. 
True, she was poorly clad, and she was small and 
wizened for her years; but her features were well 
formed, and she had fine gray eyes. But more than 
all this, she was as yet untainted by her vicious 
surroundiugs ; some noble influences had been at 
work, and saved her from being what so many of the 
young girls in her position were daily becoming. She 
had not lost the crown and glory of a young girl’s 
life, — her modesty, and a shrinking from that which 
was coarse and impure. Both of us felt this as 
we spoke; and yet, what might she not become if 
left to the baleful influences which surrounded her, 


132 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS, 


and to the depraved woman in whose power she 
was? 

“ Dan,” said Stephen, we must do something.” 

“ What ? ” I asked. 

“ First, we must take her from her present sur- 
roundings ; we must take her away from the clutches 
of that drunken wretch.” 

“ It ’s next to impossible, old man. The woman is 
no doubt the child’s guardian, and we put ourselves 
in the hands of the law if we interfere with her 
rights.” 

Eights ! ” he replied ; she has no rights, she has 
forfeited them all. Why, she would have driven this 
child to sin for drink; and then you talk about 
rights.” 

I had, I am afraid, become a little indifferent to 
these things ; or, rather, I had, through continual 
contact, come to look at them as something which, 
although very bad, could not be altered. 

“ Well,” I said, and what do you propose doing ? ” 

“ Is there no place to which we could take her for 
the night ? ” 

No place, as far as I know. There are two places 
over in Chelsea that I am acquainted with, where 
they shelter fallen girls.” 

“ But this girl is not fallen. She is only a pure, 
simple child. Is there no place for such as are in 
danger ? ” 

“ I cannot think of any,” I replied. “ The two 
places I have mentioned receive the poor things from 
off the streets ; but they are no fit places for this child, 
even though she could be taken in. All we can do, 
as far as I can see, is to give her the shilling that the 
woman wants, and let her go back to the place she 
calls home. She will be safe for the night, anyhow.” 

And the future ? ” 

I was silent, for I could think of nothing. 


SHRIMP. 


133 


My girl,” said Stephen to Shrimp, “ if I give you 
a shilling now, will that woman let you alone for 
to-night ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ And you can sleep there in safety ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ And if I could get you a place as a servant to- 
morrow, you would go ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, sir. But, please, I Ve no clothes ; no 
one would take me. Besides, she ” — pointing to the 
public-house into which the woman had gone — 
“ would find me out, and — and would make things 
hard for me.” 

“Well, we ’ll see about that. Here’s a shilling, 
and here ’s a card with my name and address on it. 
Come and see me to-morrow morning, will you ? 
You can come without that woman knowing it, I 
suppose ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, sir.” 

“ Good-night, then. Shrimp ; keep a brave heart, 
and don’t do wrong, whatever comes of it.” 

“ Ho, sir ; I won’t, I won’t,” said Shrimp, with a sob. 

We left her then. Shrimp to go to her home, and 
Stephen and I to go back to our lodgings. Both of 
us pulled off our boots in silence and sat down by 
the fire. The month, I remember, was October, and 
the nights were very chilly. Neither of us spoke for 
several minutes ; then Stephen broke out bitterly : 

“ This is a beautiful, happy world, is n’t it ? ” 

I did not reply. 

“ Think of the two scenes we ’ve just witnessed ! ” 
he went on in the same tone. “ Here is one girl 
killed by sin, and yet she never feels the wrong of 
that sin; while her mother has been a consenting 
party, and excuses it. The other one, a poor inno- 
cent child, is almost driven towards a destiny at 
which she shudders. And this is life ! ” 


134 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“Not the whole of it” I said. 

“ But it is life, for all that. What matters it to 
poor little Shrimp that others are free from temp- 
tation, while yon hag goads her on to hell day by 
day ? ” 

“ Don’t be too hard, Steve,” I suggested. 

“ Hard, Dan, hard ! but we must see things as they 
are. It is no use smoothing matters over. These 
ghastly facts exist, whether we will see them or not. 
Eor years I have closed my eyes, and have w^alked 
in a fool’s paradise; I have refused to believe in 
what Uncle Luke and Ilford used to teach ; but my 
time of disillusionment has come, and I begin to see 
things as they are now ! ” 

“ Let ’s go to bed,” I said. 

“ You may go, Dan, but I cannot. I ’ll stay up 
and read for an hour or two;” and he took a book 
from a shelf. 

“ Some law book, Steve ? ” 

“ No, it ’s a novel,” he said wearily, passing it to 
me. “ It has just come out.” 

“ A theological novel ? ” I said. 

“ Partly,” he replied ; “ it is one of the novels in - 
which the writer professes to paint life as it is, rather 
than as we would make it out to be.” 

I took the book and opened it. “ Part 11.” I read ; 
and then underneath it I saw these words : — 

“ And it was all play, and no one could tell what it 
had lived and worked for. A striving and a striving, 
and an ending in nothing.” 

“ I wish you joy in your reading, Steve,’’ I said, 
and left him alone. 

I had not been in my room more than an hour, 
when I heard a knock at my door. 

“Are you asleep, old man?” It was Steve’s 
voice. 

“ No ; come in.” 


SHRIMP. 


135 


He entered, and I saw that his face was drawn 
and pale. 

“ Is n’t it time you went to bed ? ” I said. 

“ Yes ; I’m going now. I ’m afraid I sha’n’t sleep 
for a time, though. But I can’t read any more of 
that book to-night. It ’s too ghastly. Perhaps some 
other time I may get through with it ; hut feeling as 
I ’m feeling now, it ’s too terrible, and the worst of it 
is, it feels like truth.” 

“ Don’t read any more of it,” I suggested. 

“ Yes, I must read it,” he said ; “ I want to see 
what ’s right and true.” 

There was something about his way of speaking 
which I could not understand ; but I did not question 
him, I saw he was in no humor for it ; besides, he 
left me immediately after, and I heard him tramping 
to and fro his bedroom for a long time afterwards. 

When we sat down to breakfast the following 
morning, he said abruptly, — 

“ Shrimp will be here directly, I expect.” 

“ Yes,” I replied, “ I expect she will.” 

Have you thought of anything we can do for 
her?” he asked, looking at me eagerly. 

“ Nothing,” I said. “ I ’m afraid very little can be 
done. I dare say she’s under the guardianship of 
that woman, and she will hunt her down unless we 
get the little thing a long way off.” 

“ You know no place where you could recommend 
her as a servant, do you ? ” 

“ How can I ? What do I know of her ? It is a 
very risky thing to have any connection with people 
of that sort.” 

He looked at me as though he were surprised ; then 
he said slowly, ‘'But I’m going to do something, 
Dan.” 

“What?” 

“I remember a lady who told me she was con- 


136 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


nected with a Home where such little things as 
Shrimp might be helped. I ’ve been looking up the 
law on the matter, and I don’t think that woman can 
have any claim ; besides, if she has, I ’ve no doubt a 
sovereign will arrange matters.” 

“ You ’ll buy her ? ” I asked. 

“Anything to get her away from there. This 
matter means more to me than you think. I’m 
going to the Home this morning. It’s Wandsworth 
way, and I can be back by about three o’clock. I ’ll 
ask Mrs. Blewitt to tell Shrimp to come again at that 
time.” 

He ate his breakfast in silence after that, and then 
hurried away, while I started off on my rounds. 
When I returned, at two o’clock, I found that he had 
just got back.' 

“ Dan,” he said, “ will you go with me to see that 
woman ? ” 

“ Shrimp’s aunt ? ” 

“ Yes ; I want you to come now, if you will.” 

“ Very well,” I said ; “ come on.” 

We walked briskly towards Battersea Park Eoad, 
and in a few minutes we arrived at the house outside 
which we had first seen Shrimp. To my surprise, we 
found the woman in, and, although she was slightly 
under the influence of drink, was not so intoxicated 
as when we had seen her the night before. 

She looked up at our entrance, and asked what we 
wanted. I could not help admiring the tact with 
which Stephen overcame her evident desire to be 
rude, and the way in which he got her to talk of her- 
self and her history. When he broached the subject 
of Shrimp’s relation to her, however, she was less 
communicative. 

“ Why do you want to know about ’er ? ” she 
asked. 

“ She ’s not your child,” suggested Stephen. 


SHRIMP. 


> 137 


“ Who said as 'ow she was ? ” retorted the woman. 
“ But I ’ve been as good as a mother to ’er, an’ better, 
too, for that. But she ’s a himpident little thing, and 
stupid as a toad.” 

“ I think I could get her a place,” said Stephen. 

“ Be you a religious bloke, or a parson ? ” she asked, 
with an oath. 

“ Neither,” replied Stephen. 

“ Then what right have you to care about she ? ” 

I ’m a lawyer,” replied Stephen, “ and I heard 
what you said to her last night.” 

In a few minutes he had succeeded in frightening 
her, and she told him that she “ ’oped as ’ow the 
gen’leman wudden be ’ard on a pore woman as 
wanted a drop o’ gin badly.” 

Then Stephen learnt Shrimp’s history according to 
the woman’s version. 

“ She ’s the little un of my man’s sister,” she said. 

I ’ve got my marriage lines to prove as ’ow I was 
married to Dick Hillyer. Dick’s sister was called 
Nancy. She was a housemaid over in Chelsea, but 
she gits into trouble. While she could she took in 
laundry ’ere in Battersea, then three years agone she 
died and left Shrimp behind. Dick Avas soft, and said 
we should keep her. That ’s all.” 

“ Then you ’ve no legal claim on this girl,” said 
Stephen. 

Ain’t I ? ” said the woman ; “ then the one ’as 
takes ’er from me ’ll ’ave to pay for three years’ 
keep.” 

I need not describe the conversation further, except 
to say it ended in her giving her consent, “ pervided 
Dick was willin’ ” to sign away all claim to Shrimp 
for a certain consideration. 

When we got back to our lodgings, we found Shrimp 
waiting for us. 

“ Well, Shrimp,” said Stephen, “ I ’ve found a home 


138 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


for you, a real good home. You will go away from 
that woman and be well cared for until you are old 
enough to get your living decently.” 

The little thing’s eyes filled with tears of gratitude. 

You are glad, are n’t you ? ” said Stephen. 

“ Yes, sir,” she sobbed. “ When may I go ? ” 

“ You may go to-night, if you like. I will take you 
to bid good-bye to the man and the woman you have 
lived with, and I am going to send word to the lady 
with whom you are going to stay to come here for 
you.” 

If I had doubts of Shrimp’s genuineness before, 
they were dispelled now. No bigger than an ordinary 
child of twelve, she had many of the ways of those 
far older ; and there was a certain touch of woman- 
hood in the way she seized Stephen’s hand and 
kissed it. 

“ And you ’ll be a good girl. Shrimp, and do as the 
lady tells you ? ” 

“Yessir, I will.” 

“ That will do, then. Go down with Mrs. Blewitt, 
and she will give you some tea ; and at six o’clock, 
when Dick Hillyer comes, you can go and bid them 
good-bye.” 

“Don’t — don’t let me go alone, sir, ” she said fear- 
fully ; “ they ’d keep me somehow, and not let me go 
at all.” 

*^This gentleman and I will go with you,” said 
Stephen. 

At six o’clock we took Shrimp to the place where 
she had lived, and found that Dick Hillyer had been 
back about half an hour. He was “ perfectly willing 
to part with the kid,” he said, “just to spite his old 
hag, who is allays a tryin’ to drive her to the bad. 
Not as ’ow I care for the kid, but still she ’s Nancy’s 
little un, and she was n’t a bad lass.” 

“Come and kiss me. Shrimp dearie,” said the 


SHRIMP. 


139 


woman ; “ come and kiss your aunt good-bye. And 
you’ll write me a letter, won’t you, Shrimpie, and 
I ’ll come and see the little dear.” 

But Shrimp refused to be kissed ; whereupon the 
woman broke into a string of oaths, and cursed the 
whole of us very freely. A few minutes later we 
left them, Stephen carrying in his breast-pocket an 
agreement signed by Dick Hillyer, and his wife 
Harriet, that they resigned all claims upon the 
child of Dick Hillyer’s sister, commonly known as 
Shrimp. 

It was pathetic to see the way the child clung to 
Stephen; she seemed to regard him as her natu- 
ral protector, and trusted him implicitly. When we 
got back to our lodgings, Stephen seemed somewhat 
agitated. 

“ Shrimp,” he said, “ your good behavior at your 
new home, and at the situation Mrs. Morley may 
obtain for you after you have been with her for a 
year or two, means more to me than you think. I 
build very much upon your being a good girl : do you 
understand me ? ” 

Shrimp nodded her head. 

“ I ’m going to give you a new name, too.” 

A new name, sir ? ” 

Yes; you are not going to be Shrimp any longer. 
I am going to call you a name that means very 
much to me ; I am going to call you Hope, — Hope 
Hillyer.” 

A glad look came into her eyes. “Please, sir,” 
she said, “ could n’t I stay ’ere with Mrs. Blewitt, and 
be a servant to you ? I ’d work so hard, and I ’d try 
to be very good.” 

“ No, that can’t be,” said Stephen. “ Mrs. Morley 
will teach you many things which you ought to know, 
and which I could not teach you ; besides, I don’t 
want a servant. But I shall be very much interested 


140 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


in you. And I want you to remember your name, — 
Hope, Hope. You know what it means ? ” 

She nodded intelligently, but her eyes filled with 
tears. 

If ever you are tempted to do wrong, you 11 re- 
member that I gave you the name, won’t you ? It 
means very much to me. In the future you will be 
called Hope, and by that name I shall think of you ; 
and if you are not a good girl, if you ever do any- 
thing which will make me lose hope in you, I shall 
be hurt more than you can think.” 

“ I will be good, sir,” she said, the tears trickling 
down her face. 

Just then the door-bell rang, and Mrs. Morley en- 
tered. She was a cheerful, motherly woman, who in 
the kindness of her heart had thrown open her own 
liome in order to help poor girls from falling away 
into wrong. She did not delegate her work to a 
committee, or to a matron, but carried it on herself, 
and on this occasion had brought her own carriage 
to take Shrimp away. 

“This is Hope — Hope Hillyer,” said Stephen, 
quietly ; I hope she will be worthy of your kind- 
ness.” 

After a few minutes all was ready for the depar- 
ture, and then Stephen drew the child to him and 
kissed her. 

“ Kemember your name, little one,” he said, “ and 
then I shall not fear.” She looked at him as though 
she would have spoken ; but her words were checked 
by a sob, and we heard her crying as slie entered the 
carriage with Mrs. Morley. The coachman touched 
the horses with his whip, and the conveyance rolled 
away, and long weary years passed before we saw 
Hope Hillyer again. 


SATCTRDAY NIGHT IN BATTERSEA. 141 


CHAPTER IV. 

A SATURDAY NIGHT IN BATTERSEA. 

Bernardo : Sit down awhile ; 

And let us once again assail your ears, 

That are so fortified against our story 
What we have two nights seen. 

Hamlet. 

F or the next month Stephen was very quiet and 
reserved. Only once did he volunteer to open 
a conversation, and that was one morning when we 
were sitting at breakfast. Mrs. Blewitt had placed 
two packets of letters on the table, — one before the 
chair which I usually occupied, and the other before 
Stephen’s. I read mine during the meal ; but he did 
not touch his until he had finished eating; then, 
while I took up my paper to read during the few 
minutes I had to spare before starting to work, he 
began to scan the envelopes. Presently he gave a 
start, and I saw that his face turned paler than usual. 
I did not speak, because I felt sure that his agitation 
was in some way connected with his wife. 

Dan,” he said, “ a woman’s love is a fine thing, 
is n’t it ? ” 

I should think so,” I replied lightly. “ But no 
woman could ever love me. I am not the sort of 
fellow that they care about.” 

“ Be thankful,” he said. 

I did not speak. I knew that if he wished to tell 
me anything he would do so without my asking. 


142 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“ I wrote my — my — that is, Isabella, three days 
ago.” 

"Yes.” 

" It was the second letter since she — she left me.” 

" And her answer has come this morning ? ” 

" Yes, her answer ; ” and he laughed bitterly. " See, 
she has treated both communications in the same 
way. Look ! ” and he held up a closely written page, 
across which were made several thick ink-marks. 
" She has deigned no reply in each case but this,” he 
went on. “ She has evidently read what I have 
written, and then returned it with these marks.” 

" And no other comment ? ” 

"Not a word. But, there, I suppose I ought to 
expect no more.” 

" Hope on, old fellow,” I said ; " things will come 
about right by and by.” 

He did not reply ; but I knew that he had become 
hard and bitter, and that I should do no good by 
talking. During the next three weeks he worked 
very closely through the day, and during the evening 
sat with me reading ; that was when I was not called 
out. He did not offer to go with me on my rounds 
again after the night on which we met Shrimp ; in- 
deed, he spent his days in the City, and when he 
came back in the evenings he generally looked very 
weary. After dinner he read with great avidity, not 
law books, but novels. He had always been an 
imaginative fellow, and when I saw him engrossed 
in works of fiction I was glad. 

" They will help him to forget his sorrow,” I used 
to say to myself ; for, although I had little taste and 
less leisure for fiction at that time, I knew the influ- 
ence of a good novel. I saw presently, however, that 
he did not read them as a relaxation, but as serious 
studies. He became intensely earnest in every prob- 
lem the writers introduced in their pages, and was 


SATURDAY NIGHT IN BATTERSEA. 14B 


very much interested in the way they sought to ex- 
plain the riddle of life. 

One day I looked at the names of his authors. 
They included Zola, Balzac, and several other Con- 
tinental writers of the same school, besides two or 
three English novelists who were spoken of as be- 
longing to the Eealist school. Impelled by curiosity, 
I read one of them ; and I saw that they were per- 
vaded with the same views of life that Eichard Ilford 
sought to impress upon him years before. 

“Do you find enjoyment in reading these?” I 
asked him. 

“ Enjoyment, no.” 

“ Then why in the world do you read them ? ” 

“ Because they fascinate me. They state problems 
of life, and then seek to work them out.” 

“ And how do they succeed ? ” 

“ In the only way possible. These writers read life 
as it is.” 

“ And their conclusions ?” 

He shrugged his shoulders, while a strange look 
came into his eyes. 

“ Dan,” he said one Saturday night, after we had 
been sitting in silence for a^considerable time, “let’s 
go out for a stroll.” 

“ It ’s late,” I said, “ and very cold into the bargain ; 
surely you don’t want to go out to-night.” 

“ Yes, I do ; I want to see what Battersea is like 
on a Saturday night. The people are free at this 
time, and I want to see how they enjoy themselves.” 

He put on his overcoat as he spoke, while I, yield- 
ing to his wishes, prepared to accompany him. We 
walked briskly until we came to the London, Chatham, 
and Dover railway station, in Battersea Park Eoad, 
and then went in the direction of Wandsworth. Al- 
though it was late, the road was crowded with people, 
costermongers’ barrows lined the sidewalks, and a 


144 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


brisk trade was being carried on. Occasionally, when 
we found the crowd a little thicker than usual, we 
stopped and listened. The conversation of the people 
in the streets was not ill-humored, but it was of the 
coarsest and most brutal nature. Men and women 
alike indulged in talk which I will not try to repro- 
duce here. Occasionally we heard real flashes of 
rough wit and humor, but mostly the language was 
repellent to refined ears. 

Young girls went shrieking up and down, exchang- 
ing jokes with loafing lads which might make an 
angel weep. People talk glibly about the language 
of the slums, without realizing what it means. The 
road in which we walked could by no means be 
called a slum. It is a broad, open street, with carts, 
tramcars, and cabs constantly passing up and down ; 
and yet young girls of seventeen and eighteen were 
bandying coarse jests with lads of the same age ; but 
no blush mounted the cheek of either, they felt no 
shame. Perhaps this was not to be wondered at. 
They had been accustomed to it from their earliest 
infancy, and the surroundings of their life were not 
calculated to elevate. At every few steps we encoun- 
tered men and women singing Sankey’s hymns, mostly 
holding one or two children by the hand, and, when 
the police were not looking, soliciting alms. As we 
watched, we noticed that between the intervals of 
their business, these street-singers met and talked, 
garnishing their speech with choice street epithets, 
and then immediately afterwards singing in the most 
lugubrious tones : — 


“ Safe in the arms of Jesus, 

Safe on His gentle breast.” 

During the former part of our walk we did not 
meet many drunken people in the street; but at 


SATURDAY NIGHT IN BATTERSEA. 145 

nearly every corner a public-house stood. No sooner 
had we got away from the glaring lights of one than 
we came upon another. We opened the doors of 
a large number and entered, and, without exception, 
they were full; and these public-house customers 
invariably belonged to the poorer classes. Standing 
at the bars and sitting around on the benches were 
people of both sexes and all ages. The women 
drinkers were quite as numerous as the men, and, 
if possible, they drank with more eagerness, 

I will not here try and describe their attempts at 
merriment, because I saw none. To me each ribald 
song, each drunken laugh, was inexpressibly sad. 
Women stood there with sucking babes in their 
arms ; on the faces of some I hoped I saw a look of 
shame, although they endeavored to appear gay and 
joyous : but to most, this Saturday evening drinking 
bout seemed but an ordinary thing. Young women 
sat half-drunk on the benches, while young men in 
the same condition sat with their arms around their 
waists, kissing them, and making love to them. 
Many of the older people were clothed in rags, and 
yet they found money to spend in drink. Little 
children, blue with the cold, and with but one thick- 
ness of garment on them, came with bottles and jugs 
for drink. Old men and women were there ; but 
there was neither sacredness nor dignity in their 
white hair and wrinkled faces. 

Some of the men professed to talk politics, and 
spoke with great gusto about the equalization of 
wealth, and said that “ when they could get hold of 
the Duke So-and-so’s money, would n’t they have a 
spree 1” The children looked unconcernedly on ; as 
yet they understood little of the meaning of what 
was said ; but their faces expressed no surprise, no 
horror. The training school of their life was prepar- 
ing them for a similar fate as they grew older. 

10 


146 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


I knew that in their homes near by there were 
gloom, squalor, misery, and that the money spent 
here might make their cottages comparatively cheer- 
ful ; but they thought not of this, or seemed not to. 
All the public-houses were alike, — bright, glaring, 
and full of customers. The people must have known 
that the publicans were getting rich because of their 
degradation ; but they showed no concern. 

We noticed that one of the popular subjects of 
conversation was prize-fighting ; and the men spoke 
with great reverence about certain pugilists who had 
nearly killed their opponents. 

“ Tell ya,” I heard one man say, ‘‘ I did n’t think he 
had it in ’im. He were n’t ’bove ’leven stun weight, 
and I tho’t he ’d be chucked out bad in less than 
three rounds. But, blow me tight, if he did n’ tackle 
the Bruiser, who wer’ over fourteen stun, an went for 

un like . We guv ’em a five-yard run, and in 

less than ten rounds the Bruiser’s face were as perty 
a picter as you ever see. It were jist as soft as a bit 
o’ jelly, and streamin’ wi’ claret. An’ in fourteen 
rounds Bill were jist like a bantam cock, but Bruiser 
did n’ come up to time. Tell yer, mates, it wer’ the 
grandest fight I ’ve seen for a blqe moon.” 

This led to the experiences of others, who gave the 
information that they were arranging for some “right 
beautiful fights.” 

By the time we reached a large public-house 
nearer Clapham Junction, it was nearly midnight; 
and in a street close by the gin palace we saw that a 
crowd had gathered. On making our way to it, we 
found that a ring had been made, and that two men 
were engaged in a fight. The street-lamp threw suf- 
ficient light to reveal to us the state of affairs. A 
couple of young fellows, perhaps about twenty years 
of age, were fighting like two tigers, and were cheered 
by the crowd around. 


SliTURDAY NIGHT IN BATTERSEA. 147 


What *s the quarrel ? ” asked Stephen. 

“ There ’s no quarrel,” was the reply. ‘‘ Harry 
Stun and Jimmy West is a seein’ which is the best 
man, that’s all; and Jimmy West’ll beat, for ten 
bob. Will yer take me ? ” 

We elbowed our way through the crowd, and saw 
that each had pummelled the other’s face unmerci- 
fully. Both of the lads were evidently tired of the 
fight, but their seconds urged them on. 

“ There ’s a matter ’o twenty paand staked on this 
yer fight,” they said, with an oath, “ and you ’ll have 
to fight it out.” 

This was said while the seconds were mopping the 
lads’ faces, and rubbing their bruised limbs. We 
watched while they were placed again for the con- 
test. They stood several yards apart, and at a given 
signal rushed at each other like madmen. I saw the 
bigger man of the two strike the other full in the 
face, and his opponent fell heavily. He was soon 
lifted up again, however, and began to prepare for 
another contest. Then Stephen stood in the ring. 

“ This affair must stop,” he said. 

“ What have you got to do with it ? ” asked one 
of the seconds, with a brutal oath. 

It must stop,” said Stephen. 

« Why, there hev n’t bin but sivin rounds yet,” 
said another ; “ and it ’s not a goin’ to be stopped for 
any bloomin’ swell.” 

As long as I can stand,” said Stephen, “ I ’m 
going to stand between these two lads. Dan, you go 
and fetch the police ; if they did their duty, they ’d 
be here now.” 

“ Catch ’em ! ” said the crowd, with a laugh. 

I did not like to leave my friend there alone, but 
I saw that his physique commanded respect. He 
was over six feet high, and while he was not very 
broad, his every movement proclaimed him an ath- 


148 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


lete. I noticed, too, that the two seconds, who were 
among the scum of the place, and who had evidently 
a financial interest in the fight, were limp, pulpy 
men, without either physical courage or strength. 
The two combatants seemed glad of the interference ; 
and while a number of the watchers were angry at 
the fun being spoiled, many were interested in the 
part Stephen was playing. 

I had just reached the edge of the crowd, when I 
saw two lads whom I knew I could trust, and I told 
them to fetch the police at once, while I went back 
towards Stephen again. 

“ Ain’t there a couple o’ chaps ’ere as ’ll pitch this 
puppy out of the ring ? ” said one of the seconds ; but 
there were no volunteers. 

“ Perhaps you had better do it yourself, seeing you 
are so anxious to have it done,” said Stex^hen ; where- 
upon tliere was a great guffaw. 

“ I say ! ” said the other second, “ I s’pose the other 
cove will bring the bobbies ’ere in a few minutes ; 
Harry and Jimmy must fight while they can.” But 
Stephen stood quietly in the ring, and the lads seemed 
to be glad for an excuse not to fight. 

“Look ’ere,” said one of the seconds, “what do 
you, a howlin’ swell, mean by a cornin’ ’ere to stop 
the poor man’s bit o’ fun ? You ’ave yer bloomin’ 
chapels and churches, and all the rest on it ; let us 
alone, will yer?” This speech was garmshed by 
many oaths, and greatly cheered by the bystanders. 

“We don’t interfere with your larks,” he went on, 
cheered by the approval of the crowd, “ and yet the 
likes of you jist want to stop every bit of fun a poor 
chap has. “ You ’re a religious. cove, I s’pose ; how ’d 
you like for me to come and stop yer cussed howlin’ ? 
Fair play all round, I says. We likes a fight, we 
do, and Tre ’re a goin’ to hev it, too. Now, Harry and 
Jimmy, you know it means a quid to the best man, 


SATURDAY NIGHT IN BATTERSEA. 149 


and ye are bloomin’ cowards if ye let this bloke stop 
yer.” 

“Call this enjoyment, do you ?” said Stephen; “if 
there is enjoyment in bruising faces, you two seconds 
bruise yours. But these lads are not going to fight 
while I can stop them.” 

“ Let ’s be off ; the bobbies are coming ! ” shouted a 
voice ; and immediately there was a clatter of feet 
down the street. 

In a minute more the crowd had dispersed, and 
two policemen sauntered very slowly up to where we 
were standing. 

“ It seems to me you are generally out of the way 
when you are wanted,” said Stephen, sharply. 

“ I s’pose we don’t exist for the likes of you,” 
said one of them, angrily. “ What ’s the row ? ” 

“ Some chaps were having a bit of fun,” said one of 
the seconds, both of whom had remained, and were 
evidently acquainted with the gentlemen in blue, 
“and this bloke comes and kicks up a row; that’s 
what ’s the matter.” 

“ Come, clear out, or I ’ll run ye in,” said the officer. 

“Not before I take your number,” said Stephen. 

“ Take my number forty times if you like,” said 
the man ; “ but things are coming to a pretty pass if 
a few chaps can’t enjoy themselves without your 
interference.” 

“Come, clear out of it,” said the other; and the 
officers walked away, evidently anxious to be quit of 
the matter. The two seconds made their way to the 
public-house close by, while we continued our walk 
up the main road. 

By this time the streets were very much thinned. 
Only a few people were around, and these were 
mostly issuing from the public-houses, more or less 
intoxicated. 

“We are having an interesting walk,” said Stephen, 


150 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


as we trudged on, — a very exhilarating one too ; ” 
and I noticed how bitter and desponding was his 
tone. We came up to a square, at one corner of 
which a music-hall stood, and at the other a huge 
public-house. People were pouring out of the former, 
and large numbers were entering the latter. All 
around were poor bedraggled things seeking to earn 
the bread of shame, while policemen passed them 
by, giving them only an indifferent stare. From the 
half-open doors of the public-house shrieks of laugh- 
ter and loud curses came, — curses that were black 
with filth and vice. 

“ This seems like the very mouth of the bottomless 
pit,” said Stephen. 

Yet within a few hundred yards from here there 
are many happy homes, many virtuous, pure-minded 
people,” I said. “ We only see a part ; don’t let ’s 
be too hard.” 

“And yet these virtuous, happy people sleep in 
comfort, knowing what lies so near. Look, see that 
poor thing ; she can’t be more than sixteen or seven- 
teen, and yet she stands there waiting for a chance to 
sell herself, body and soul. There, listen to her lan- 
guage. My God, it ’s horrible ! ” 

“ But she ’s half drunk, or she would n’t speak so,” 
I suggested. 

“ Only half drunk, a young girl like that, and ” 

I did not catch the end of his sentence, for it was 
drowned by the terrible shrieks coming from the 
public-house; and, looking towards it, I saw two 
drunken women who had been thrust out into the 
street, and who were frantically clutching at each 
other’s hair, amidst howls and shrieks. 

“ Here ’s two women hevin’ a fight ; let ’s see it 
out,” was the cry ; and immediately a ring was formed 
around them. 

“ Where are the policemen ? ” asked Stephen. 


SATURDAY NIGHT IN BATTERSEA. 151 


We looked around, and saw one sauntering away. 
Stephen ran and caught him by the arm. 

“ Your services are wanted up by the public-house 
yonder,” he said ; “ come at once ; ” and the officer, 
as I thought to his chagrin, accompanied us. When 
we got back, both the poor creatures were on the 
ground ; and then, another policeman having come 
up, the two were taken and marched off to the police- 
station,while the crowd, many of whom had left their 
cups to watch the fight, returned to them, so as to 
“ make the most of the time, seein’ as ’ow it wanted 
ten minutes to twelve.” 

" Come,” said Stephen, as the bystanders laughed 
and joked about “ the two ole ’ags a-fightin’,” “ let us 
get away from this.” 

We walked towards Battersea Square, and although 
it wanted but a few minutes to midnight, we saw 
that every public-house we passed was full. There 
was a dense population around, but everywhere was 
misery and vice. Somehow, men and women could 
find money for drink, but none for clothes or other 
comfort. I, who had gone into all these streets 
around, knew that squalor, and sickness, and starva- 
tion were all only too common. True, there were 
many in comfort, and many good, well-meaning 
people; but there was a monster in the midst of 
the people which was destroying the best life of 
thousands with terrible relentlessness. 

And yet what had come under our notice was only 
the outside of the life, — what might be seen any 
Saturday night by any one who would take the 
trouble to watch, as we did. Of sickening orgies 
which doubtless existed, we saw nothing ; to dark 
deeds done in dark places, we gave no heed that 
night ; the vice we saw walked naked, and was not 
ashamed. 

We turned up a lane, and walked quietly on until 


152 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


we came to a row of tall houses which had evidently 
been built for shops. Ou a board was the inscrip- 
tion : ‘‘ Beds fourpence a night, or two shillings 
a week. For Men.” Close by was a similar an- 
nouncement concerning women. 

“ Let us go in,” said Stephen ; they are still 
open.” 

I was about to reply, when I heard the clocks in 
the near distance striking twelve ; and then the great 
public-house which stood at the end of the row of 
lodging-houses, and old clothes and paper shops, 
began to empty itself. Strange as had ^been the 
medleys in the other places, this was the strangest 
we had seen. There must have been forty or fifty of 
the outcast of Battersea there. They were mostly 
tramps, beggars, cadgers, street-singers ; people with- 
out home or property. The leer of the devil was in 
the eyes of many, their faces were besotted, and 
some were hideous. Pock-marked, diseased, dirty, 
they tumbled into the street, and many of them 
found their way into the lodging-houses close by. 
Most of them had been able to beg or steal a shilling 
or two through the day, and during the evening they 
laid it at the shrine of the god of their life. Some 
of them begged the more fortunate for the price of a 
bed, and cursed themselves for “guzzlin’ the last 
fo’pence.” 

I will not try and describe their language. I 
could not if I tried, except to say that every sentence 
revealed the fact that all true life seemed dead. 
There was little or no sense of right and wrong, no 
sense of decency. And yet let me not paint the pic- 
ture too black. I saw one half-drunken woman say 
“ she ’d had a good day, and had a bob left, and would 
share it, she would, with Sal, who had drunk her last 
fo’pence.” Others who were less fortunate, or more 
foolish, and had not wherewith to pay for a night’s 


SATURDAY NIGHT IN BATTERSEA. 153 


lodging, went away into the night alone. We 
watched them enter the lodging-houses, some shriek- 
ing with laughter, some cursing with fierce oaths, but 
all abandoned, and, as far as we could judge, lost. 

Meanwhile the publican began to close the doors 
of his establishment, and we saw him with tlie 
woman we supposed to be his wife standing together. 
A heavy gold chain hung on his waistcoat, a thick 
ring was on his finger, while the woman was be- 
decked with showy jewelry. Both, too, were well 
fed, well clothed. They were prosperous. What 
was the source of their prosperity ? 

“Let us go home, Dan,” _ said Steve; “this is 
enough for to-night; ” and we walked quietly up the 
road together. 

“ Have you heard that saying' about the ‘ litter of 
Hell * and the ^ spawn of Cain ’ ? ” he said. 

I nodded. 

“ We’ ve just seen them,” he said. “ And the race 
won’t cease. They will have children — just as 
they are. And men say this is God’s world ! ” 

When we reached my lodgings, he sat for a long- 
time in silence, and then, with a sad good-night to 
me, went to bed. 


154 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


CHAPTER V. 

SUNDAY IN BATTERSEA.^ 


An’ I hallus coom’d to ’s chooch afoor moy Sally wur dead, 

An’ ’eerd ’um a bummin’ awa'ay loike a buzzard-clock ower my ’ead ; 
An’ I niver knaw’d whot a mean’d, but I thowt a ’ad summut to saay, 
An’ I thowt a said whot a owt to ’a said, an’ I coom’d awaa3^ 

Tennyson. 


A t the time of which I write there were over one 
hundred thousand people in Battersea, the great 
majority of whom were poor people. I do not sup- 
pose that any part of the neighborhood would be 
called a slum. Even the lowest parts would be re- 
garded, I expect, as a grade above what is usually 
understood by that name. Still, great masses of poor 
people congregate there. Many have been drawn 
there because of the destruction of small houses in 
Chelsea, and many come there because rents are com- 
paratively cheap. In some parts of what used to 
be called Battersea Fields are large and expensive 
houses ; while on the Thames side of the district is 
one of the most beautiful parks of which London can 
boast. Of course these facts are known to Londoners 
in general, but I give this information for those who 
are strangers to our modern Babylon, and who, when 
they come to “ see the sights,” seldom find their way 
to “ Sloper’s Island.” 

The local government of Battersea is rather mixed, 
and I fancy it must puzzle some of the members of 
the governing bodies to know the limits of their 


SUNDAY IN BATTERSEA. 


155 


functions. However, I suppose it is much like other 
outlying districts of the city. 

As I stated in the last chapter, public-houses are 
very numerous in Battersea, places of amusement 
are rare. Churches belonging to all denominations 
are to be seen. Almost every sect in the Christian 
Church is represented, and a great deal of religious 
fervor is supposed to exist. That is to say, in a 
population of over one hundred thousand, religious 
accommodation is provided for something like a third 
of the number. 

“ Dan,” said Stephen to me, on the morning follow- 
ing our walk, ‘Hast night we saw one side of the 
life ; let us see the other to-day.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” I asked. 

“Let us go and have a look at the churches. Let 
us go into the park ; let us see what goes on on 
Sundays.” 

I looked at my watch. “ Very well,” I said ; “ un- 
less something turns up of which I have no knowledge, 
I shall have done my rounds by eleven o’clock.” 

I saw what was in his mind, and began to feel 
more interested than I thought possible. I had lived 
my life among these people, without troubling much 
as to their condition or prospects. Like most other 
people, I thought most about getting on in my pro- 
fession, and retiring when I had made my fortune. 
Stephen had made me begin to be thoughtful and 
interested. So I got through my work as rapidly as 
I was able, and just before eleven was ready to ac- 
company him. We were not far from the Christmas 
season of the year; but it was a bright, warm morning, 
and offered every inducement to pedestrians. 

“ Come, Dan,” he said, “ we shall be late ; come 
on.” 

“ Where ? ” I asked. 

“ I hardly know yet, but to some church.” 


156 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


I mentioned a well-known church which I had 
heard was largely attended. 

“ No, not there,” he said ; “ we know what w^e shall 
see there ; let ’s go to another place, — one of the 
despised conventicles. I saw one last night.” 

We made our way to the place mentioned, and 
arrived there about ten minutes late. It was an ugly, 
barn-like building, and seated about four hundred 
people. The seats were badly made and uncomfort- 
able, and the atmosphere near the doors was, owing 
to the stoves placed there, musty, and unwholesomely 
w^arm. Nearer the platform it was damp and chilly. 
There were, all told, about forty people in the place, 
mostly old women. They were of the usual chapel- 
going order, and a look of apathy rested on tlieir 
faces. The preacher was young, and on the whole 
liad not a bad face. We were informed afterwards 
that the congregation was unusually large that day, 
owing to the fact that a minister was in the pulpit. 
“ Mostly,” said our informant, “ we have local preach- 
ers, and some of them don’t draw.” 

The young man was very earnest ; but, as far as 
we could see, he might as well have preached to 
Hottentots, for all the interest manifested, save by 
two men who sat in the back part of the chapel with 
their Bibles opened. I have forgotten the subject of 
the sermon now. I know it struck me at the time as 
being altogether unappropriate ; but the preacher w^as 
in earnest, and an earnest man always commands 
respect. The singing was doleful in the extreme, and 
the people, although several of them gave expressive 
groans during prayer-time, seemed to fail to under- 
stand why they were there. 

Outside, the costermongers and milkmen shouted, 
the butchers offered many inducements to buyers, 
men and women thronged up and down, waiting im- 
patiently for the public-houses to open. And this 


SUNDAY IN BATTERSEA. 


157 


church, which was supposed to exist to create a 
better atmosphere, and to get people to be religious, 
was nearly empty. 

At length the service came to an end, and the 
people prepared to depart. The preacher came down 
from the pulpit, and hurried to the door to shake 
hands with the people as they went out, while one 
of the “ leaders ” came up to speak to Stephen and 
me. 

“Very glad to see you,” he said; “hope you’ll 
come to-night. A very acceptable local is coming.” 

“ Is this your usual congregation ? ” 

“We are A^ery good this morning ; you see, Mr. 

is a smart chap. I s’pose you heard about him, and 
came.” 

“ But this is a very small congregation for such a 
neighborhood. There are crowds outside.” 

“ Yaas ; ’t is hard to get ’em in. Sometimes, when 
we give a tea to the mothers and fathers of the 
Sunday-school children, we can git a crowd; but 
they don’t come else. The old gospel seems to lose 
power.” 

“ And yet the public-houses fill.” 

He shook his head, and we passed out. When we 
reached the vestibule, we saw that the two men who 
had sat with their Bibles open during the sermon 
were engaged in lecturing the minister on his sermon. 

“’Tis no use, churches and chapels,” they said, 
and your sermon was all wrong. Nothing will be 
done till the Second Coming. The world will get 
worse till then, and then it will be saved in a day. 
What you should do is to prepare the people for the 
Second Coming.” 

The minister feebly protested ; but before he could 
finish a sentence, their Bibles were taken from their 
pockets, and they poured passages of Scripture upon 
him with great vehemence. 


158 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


As people was eatin’ an’ drinkin’ in the days of 
Noah, so they are now,” one said. “ And you know 
that such is the time for the coming of the Son of 
Man. All your churches and chapels are wrong. 
Preach the Second Cornin’, young man, and thus de- 
clare the whole counsel. All the sin, all the drinkin’, 
and swearin’, and blasphemy is accordin’ to Scripture, 
and the Scripture must be fulfilled. Prepare the 
people for the Second Cornin’, and then the devil will 
be chained for a thousand years.” 

They passed out, and we followed them. 

“ How did you like the sermon ? ” I heard one old 
dame say to another. 

Oh, middlin’ ; but I sha’n’t vote for his stayin’ ; 
he ain’t a been to see me for months.” 

' “ No ; he don’t seem to care about cornin’ to tea 
like the last one we had. He used to sit for hours 
talkin’ with me.” 

It was about a quarter past twelve when we left 
the chapel, and we saw numbers of the people taking 
their dinners from the bakers' shops to their homes ; 
otherwise the street was unchanged. Looking up the 
road, we saw a little group of people gathered, in the 
midst of which was a man wildly gesticulating. On 
drawing near, we saw that it was a religious gathering, 
and tliat the man in the midst was the preacher. I 
need not repeat his address. It was after the usual 
style. The people, he declared, were all lost, all 
trembling on the brink of the bottomless pit. If 
they would n’t accept the gospel he preached, they 
must be damned. A few of the religiously inclined 
people groaned, but the men and women who waited 
for the public-houses to open, and for whom the ad- 
dress was especially intended, looked on with stolid 
indifference. The tortures of the lost affected them 
not one jot. Some smoked indifferently, others 
laughed and passed their jokes. Even though they 


SUNDAY IN BATTERSEA. 


159 


should go to the place the preacher spoke about, they 
would go on doing as they were doing. Now and 
then some of these people became converted, but such 
cases were very rare. They had got into a groove of 
life, and it was very difficult to get them out. 

“ The man’s red-hot address makes no impression,” 
said Stephen to me. 

Of course not,” said some one at my elbow. “It ’s 
according to Scripture. ' The people of this genera- 
tion shall wax worse and worse.’ That ’s what they 
are doing. Everything will go worse till the Second 
Cornin’ ; then there ’ll be a change. Come and hear 
about it, will you ? Here ’s a list of our services. We 
have them at my house in York Eoad. There ’ll be 
one to-night at half-past six, and, mind you, we do 
everything according to Scripture.” 

We turned, and saw the men who had taken the 
preacher to task. They carried their Bibles under 
their arms, and packets of tracts in their hands. 

“We used to belong to that chapel till we discov- 
ered the error of our ways,” continued the speaker. 
“ Now our eyes are opened. Things will go on as 
they are, only worse, till the Second Cornin’ ; then 
there ’ll be a change. Come and hear.” 

We took a tract and passed on. 

“ Anyhow, there seems an effort put forth to get 
the people right, if they are in the wrong,” I said. 

Stephen said nothing. We passed by another 
chapel, out of which the congregation were just com- 
ing. Altogether there might be a hundred, mostly of 
the shopkeeping class. Very likely they had been 
in the habit of going there all their lives, and they 
seemed respectable, well-meaning people; but they 
took no notice of the crowds that went along who 
were regardless of both churches or preachers. Ac- 
cording to the teaching of the preacher to which they 
had been listening, and according to their own belief. 


160 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


the great mass of this godless throng was on its way 
to an eternal hell ; but the fact did not seem to affect 
them. They made their way without paying any 
heed to the godlessness which was manifested on 
every hand. For my own part, I had far more sym- 
pathy with the shrieking street-preacher than with the 
smug complacency of the chapel-goers. 

We trudged on until we came to one of the 
entrances of Battersea Park. The Albert Palace 
stood in the near distance, a church close by, and a 
group of perhaps a hundred people stood on an open 
space near the park gates. In the midst of this 
assembly, too, was an orator, hut of a different class 
from the other. He was declaiming against religion 
in general, and against Christianity and Christians in 
particular. 

“ What, me friends,” he shouted, “ is the greatest 
henemy you have to deal with ? Eeligion. What has 
religion done for you ? It has made you poor. It has 
taken away your money to build churches, and pay . 
fat, lazy parsons. And more than that, it has taken 
away yer liberty, and yer strength. It has made yer 
fathers poor, and you poor. Why, think. S ’pose 
all the money spent in this cussed nonsense was 
given to the poor, do you think you ’d have sich poor 
tommy as you ’ve got to feed on ever}^ day ? Here ’s 
yer bishops with their thousands and thousands a 
year, a telling you poor blokes with less than a pound 
a week that if you don’t jist believe in their cussed 
nonsense, the whole lot of you will be packed to hell. 
They rob yer at yer birth, and they rob yer at yer 
death. They ’ve made people afraid ; made ’em like 
little babbies through believin’ in their lies. When- 
ever did any of yer churches and chapels do any 
good ? They pretend to make people better. How 
much have they made the Battersea people better? 
Why, the white-livered beggars, they ’ll take yer in, 


SUNDAY IN BATTERSEA. 


161 


if they can, every time yer goes into their shops and 
sich like. If ever I wants to be took in, I goes and 
has dealin’s with a purfessin’ Christian, that ’s what I 
does. They says as ’ow they ’re against the drinkin’. 
When have either parson, or deacon, or any such 
thing tried to close one pub ? ISTo, they only care 
’bout themselves. Tell yer, mates, I ’ve read ’istory, 
I ’ave, and I find that the money left to the poor, 
years agone, is all a swallowed up by the parsons. 
Down with the parsons ! I say. I 'm very glad that 
only very few people go to the gospel shops, for all 
they do is to make people think ’bout ’eaven and sich 
things, and do nothin’ to make all the life we knows 
anything about wuth the livin’ at all. Turn the 
churches into museums, and lecture halls, and science 
rooms, I say, and kick out these black-coated, white- 
chokered, lazy blacklegs, and use the money paid to 
’em in makin’ this life a bit like ’eaven.” 

The people listened in the same stolid way. One 
or two said “ Hear, hear,” but they were evidently 
supporters of the speaker. The motley 'crowd smoked, 
and laughed, and joked, just in the same way as they 
had done when the preacher farther up the road liad 
warned them to “ flee from the wrath to come.” 

We were just leaving, when a man from the crowd 
announced that there would be another meeting at 
the same place at three o’clock precisely. All who* 
were interested in freethought and the welfare of 
their fellow-men were invited to come. 

“It seems to me,” said Stephen, as we walked 
towards our lodgings, “ that there is no need for tlie 
man to declaim so vehemently against religion. No 
one appears to trouble about it.” 

“ But there are several churches that I know of 
well attended,” I said. 

“ Are there ? ” he replied. “ Then I suppose the 
respectable old habit of church-going will last a little 
11 


162 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


longer among the well-to-do people. But, as far as I 
can see, the great masses of the people go nowhere.” 

“ Come, now, Steve, it ’s not so bad as that.” 

“ Is n’t it ? Well, perhaps not ; but everything has 
seemed strange to me lately. In the old days, when 
I went to church with my father I never , troubled at 
all. When I was in Manchester, I went to no place 
of worship ; it was so difficult when one lived with 
such a fellow as Ilford. Up till a little while ago I 
went to a fashionable church — to — to please Isa- 
bella ; but I did n’t trouble as to what these things 
meant. Now — everything is changed.” 

In the afternoon we went out again, this time in- 
to the park. Tempted by the smiling sunlight, 
the people gathered in great numbers. Most of the 
youths smoked twopenny cigars, and held a girl by 
the arm. The older people stood around in groups, 
and those who were not minding the babies seemed 
to be busy gossiping. Here again were orators, 
singers, preachers. 

Near one of the entrances into the Sub-tropical 
Gardens stood a larger group than was common. As 
we came up to it, a man announced that “ Happy 
Elijah,” the converted chimney-sweep, would speak ; 
and “Happy Elijah” stood forth in the middle of 
the circle. He was a little man, having a somewhat 
swarthy skin ; but that which struck me as remark- 
able about him was his eyes. These were bright and 
kindly, and while we could not help seeing the en- 
thusiast’s light shining from them, they also told of 
tenderness and truth. There was nothing out of the 
ordinary in what he said ; his gospel was of the usual 
order : “ believe and be saved,” was his cry ; and yet 
we could not help seeing that the man was happy. 
His address aroused a great deal of enthusiasm, 
because of the gladness and joy of the speaker’s 
own life. Even Stephen could not help smiling at 


SUNDAY IN BATTERSEA. 


163 


the man’s sallies of wit : for he was witty ; neither 
could we help being cheered by the sunshine of his 
presence. 

We wandered around the park all the afternoon, 
and everywhere some one had a message to proclaim. 
One preached temperance, another atheism, another 
socialism, another some peculiar religious creed. 
Perhaps the Socialist crowd was the largest, and per- 
haps it was the only one which listened with any- 
thing like interest to the orator. He (the speaker) 
had the happy knack of hitting off his ideas in 
homely, terse language ; and, besides this, he poured 
red-hot socialism into the ears of his listeners. 
“ Nationalize the land,” was his cry ; “ nationalize 
railways, nationalize everything. Take away from 
the blood-sucking dukes and lords the wealth they 
have stolen. Make everybody work, and pay every- 
body the same wages. Give members of Parliament 
two pound a week all round, and let there be no 
humbuggin’ nonsense.” 

“ Well, Stephen, have n’t you seen and heard 
enough ? ” I said at length. “ It’s all a repetition of 
what we have heard before.” 

“ Let ’s go home and have a cup of tea,” he said, 
“ and then we ’ll come out again. To-day is a fine 
day, and we see the reformers in full force. I want 
an idea of what ’s being done. Everything ’s strange 
to me. You know, I ’ve spent my Sundays indoors, 
except when the weather’s been unusually fine, 
and then I ’ve gone into the country. We are in 
Battersea on a Sunday ; let ’s see Battersea on a 
Sunday.” 

I ’m afraid I can’t come with you to-night,” I 
said ; “ I ’ve work to do.” 

“ I shall be sorry for that, Dan ; but if you can’t 
come, I ’ll go alone.” 

As it happened, however, I was able to accompany 


164 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


him ; and although nothing particular happened, I 
could not help being interested. 

I suggested that we should go to one of the well- 
known places of worship; but Stephen would not 
hear of it. 

‘‘ No, Dan ; we know exactly what we shall see 
and hear there. If we attend one of the Episcopal 
Churches, we shall go through their service, the con- 
gregation will be of the usual sleek church-going 
order, and they will have to listen to some conven- 
tional twaddle by the curate. The ordinary Dissent- 
ing chapel will be similar to what we saw this 
morning, only a trifle more respectable.” 

Just as he spoke, a Salvation Army hand began 
playing one of the Army tunes ; we stopped near 
them, and listened. There were half-a-dozen crazy 
instruments, which were awfully out of tune, and the 
people who tried to sing bawled terribly. After the 
music had continued for two or three minutes, some 
one prayed. He besought the Almighty to save 
souls, — that was the burden of his prayer ; and the 
fervent Salvationists said “ Amen.” Then some one 
gave an address. This time it was a woman. My 
dear friends,” she said, “ I stand here to-night to tell 
you that I ’m saved. Once I was a bad girl ; nothing 
was too bad for me. I drank, I swore, I went into 
all sorts of sin, I was on the brink of hell ; now I ’m 
saved. You, my dear friends, are on the brink of 
hell ; you are in danger every minute. The hearses 
are constantly passing, graves are always being dug, 
and if you die in your sin you T1 be damned forever. 
Don’t you see it, my friends ? Well, then, I stand 
here to tell you that you can he saved. Come to 
the Blood, my friends, and so he saved from such an 
awful doom.” 

This she repeated several times in almost the 
same words, and the Salvationists gave fervent ejacu- 


SUNDAY IN BATTERSEA. 


165 


lations ; but the onlookers were still indifferent. 
They had heard the same story so often that they 
laughed at it. 

' Leaving the Salvationists, we went to a small hall, 
where it was announced that “ The pure gospel would 
be preached every Lord’s Day at half-past six.” 
Well, we heard the “ pure gospel.” As far as I 
could see, the only difference between the gospel here 
and the gospel which other people believed in was 
that everybody who would be saved must be baptized 
as well as believe. To believe, they said, was not 
enough ; we must be immersed as well. Of course 
those who did not fall in with their conceptions 
must suffer the consequences. Certainly, if they 
told the truth, heaven would be very thinly populated. 

Their service over, we found our way into Batter- 
sea Park Eoad, and walked towards Wandsworth. 
The road was again full, but the shops were closed. 
It is true there were a few costermongers who 
sold nuts, oranges, and the like, but comparatively 
little business was done. On every hand, however, 
was preaching, preaching, preaching. 

Certainly, if talking would have saved Battersea, 
Battersea would have been saved long since. It has 
been said that thousands of people in some parts^of 
London have never heard the sound of the gospel. I 
do not see how this can be true of Battersea. If the 
people don’t hear it, they have to stay indoors, or else 
literally close their ears. But this also must be said, 
opposite every little group, or within very short dis- 
tance, stood a great glaring public-house. There 
was every kind of orator. Converted Jews, con- 
verted atheists, converted prize-fighters, converted 
street-singers, converted drunkards ; and yet it 
seemed to me that all their preaching was a long 
way off. It was all hazy, and much of it unpractical. 
And yet all were earnest, all were trying to do good. 


1G6 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


To me there was much that was saddening and dis- 
heartening in the apathy of the people ; but I could 
not help being struck by the evident desire of the 
workers to do good. 

Two of the speakers interested me very much. 
One was a Jew, who told how he had been converted 
to Christianity through reading a book which, he 
said, proved that the English race was the ten lost 
tribes of Israel, and that only when the English race 
recognized this fact would the millennium come. 
Certainly he was very ingenious, and the novelty of 
his subject interested me. There was a great deal 
of Oriental imagery in his speech, and the picture of 
the world saved through England acknowledging the 
truth was, to say the least of it, fine word-painting. 
The other was a temperance orator, who stood not 
far from the Latchmere public-house. Certainly for 
street oratory I have never heard his equal. In a 
homely, forcible way he told the people how foolish 
they were when they emptied their pockets into the 
publican’s tills ; but I noticed that although the crowd 
paid him a respectful hearing, and although oaths and 
curses were heard coming from another public-house 
close by, when he had finished, a number of the 
listeners entered the place he had been warning them 
against. 

I will not describe the rest of the evening, for it 
was nearly a repetition of the night before. After a 
little while the street preachers and singers went 
home, and the churches became dark ; but the public- 
houses still remained open ; and it seemed as though 
all the religious efforts were in vain. The people 
that the religious enthusiasts tried to reach were 
left untouched, while the flesh and the devil still 
held them fast. Men and women still drank away 
manliness, womanliness, honor, and modesty in the 
public-houses, while in the streets vice walked un- 


SUNDAY IN BATTERSEA. 


167 


checked; and gross sin, as we had seen the night 
before, was still naked, but not ashamed. 

It may be said' that I have drawn a sombre picture , 
but I have written down what I saw and heard as 
faithfully as I can, not so much for the sake of de- 
scribing what may be seen almost any Saturday or 
Sunday, but because of its influence on my friend. 

When we reached home that night, Stephen, who 
had been very silent through the day, said to me, — 

“ Dan, do you know what all we have seen and 
heard to-day tells me ? ” 

“ No.” 

‘‘That everything and everybody is' bad. The 
people preach because of this, — this is the meaning 
of it all. The world is bad ; they feel it, and they 
have a desire to make it better, because they are 
discontented and miserable. That is the logic of 
everything that has been said ; it is a bad world, and 
a miserable world.” 

“ You forget Happy Elijah,” I said. 

Then a more gentle look came to his eyes again, 
and I wondered what he was thinking. 


168 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


CHAPTEE VI 


THE cynics’ views ON LITERATURE. 


Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days 
Ignoble themes obtained mistaken praise. 


Byron. 



OE about three months after the experiences I 


r have described in the last chapter, Stephen 
made no reference to his doubts or fears. Indeed, I 
saw very little of him. There was a great deal of 
sickness in the neighborhood, and my time v'as fully 
occupied in visiting my patients. Stephen, too, ap- 
peared to be very busy. He went to the City each 
day ; and although he came back early, he spent very 
little of his time indoors. I discovered that he was 
getting well known in the neighborhood, and that lie 
mixed with all shades and conditions of people. 
Sometimes he was seen talking with laundry girls, 
often with street singers ; while I was told again and 
again that he was no stranger to public-houses and 
other places where loungers congregate. He did not 
drink, however ; or if he did, he never betrayed the 
fact in any way. 

I never spoke to him about his methods of life, 
partly because I knew that he was not in the mood to 
regard what might seem interference very favorably, 
and partly because I knew, or thought I knew, what 
he was endeavoring to do. When he had anything 
he cared to tell me, I should have no need to seek 
his confidence. But this I could not help seeing: 


THE CYNICS^ VIEWS ON LITERATURE. 169 


the old Stephen was gone. All the trustfulness, the 
gayety and enthusiasm which characterized him years 
before were of the past. He was suspicious, gloomy, 
and taciturn, save now and then, when for an hour or 
two he seemed to forget himself. 

One evening — it was toward the end of February 
— it so happened that we were sitting together by 
a cheerful fire, when my landlady announced that 
two gentlemen wished to see Mr. Edgcumbe. On 
looking at their cards, I saw him start, and change 
color; nevertheless, he gave instructions that they 
should be shown up immediately. “ It ’s Uncle Luke 
and Ilford,” he said ; “ their visit promises a change, 
anyhow.” 

A few seconds later, Luke Edgcumbe and Eichard 
Ilford took their places beside the fire. 

“ It is the first time I Ve seen you since you made 
a fool of yourself,” said Luke, after he had been 
seated a few minutes. 

I thought it was a brutal remark to make, but 
Stephen took it quietly. Without speaking, he 
opened his cigar-case and offered it to his uncle and 
Ilford, and then, having lit a cigar for himself, he 
smoked vigorously, looking steadily into the fire. 

“ And are you going on in this way ? ” continued 
his uncle, after a pause. 

“ I don’t know. I expect so — for a bit.” 

“ I suppose you know you ’re an idiot ? ” 

Stephen’s face flushed, but he remembered that the 
man was his relative, and that he was justified in 
taking liberties with him. Besides, no doubt the 
speech was meant kindly. 

“Yes,” he said, “I’m pretty much of an idiot, no 
doubt ; but what is your special reason for referring 
to it now ? ” 

“Just this, my lad. You are cooping yourself up 
in these pesky rooms, — excuse me, Eoberts, — you 


170 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


are denying yourself all manner of such pleasures 
as the world is able to give, you are as poor as a 
church mouse, and you are more miserable than you 
need be, just because you will not accept your fate, 
and do as other people do.” 

'' And what would you suggest ? ” 

« Why, take the allowance I am able to give you, 
go into the City, and suck what little sweetness there 
is out of life. Just because yoa haven’t met the 
matter boldly, you ’ve lost caste with the lawyers and 
men of your profession ; you ’ve got out of the swim 
generally, and you make yourself a fool about a 
woman who does not, and never did, care twopence 
for you.” 

“ You see, I have the remains of a conscience left,” 
said Stephen. 

“ Conscience I” said Luke, with a sneer. Yes, it ’s 
a very fine thing, no doubt. A grand thing to swear 
by, a very convenient thing to introduce when you 
want to make an impression ; but a miserable thing to 
be serious about. My dear lad, who troubles about 
conscience nowaday ? Not one in ten thousand ! Do 
as other people do, and be as comfortable as you can. 
Look at my case, now.” 

“ Well, what about it, Uncle Luke ?” 

Why, he ’s settled his affairs amicably, and is in 
a fair way to do far better than he did before,” inter- 
rupted Ilford. “ You ’ll see him Lord Mayor of Lon- 
don yet, a patron of all sorts of charities, and an 
endower of churches.” 

“ Is this so, uncle ? ” asked Stephen. 

“ Have n’t you read the papers ? ” responded Luke. 

“No; I’ve avoided everything that referred to 
you.” 

“Ha! ha! that’s good. Well, yes, I’ve done 
pretty well. The smash is now done with, and I ’ve 


THE CYNICS* VIEWS ON LITERATURE. 171 


entered into negotiations that promise very well ; 
far better than I could have expected.” 

“ What did you pay your creditors, then ? ” 

“ Oh, the sum I mentioned to you ” 

Of course you ’ll refund the whole amount when 
you succeed in building up your fortune again ? ” 

“ I don’t know ; it will depend.” 

“ Depend on what ? ” 

“Well, whether it is worth while.” 

Although I had for years been accustomed to his 
ideas, this cool remark somewhat staggered me, while 
I saw Stephen move uneasily in his chair. 

“We understand each other plainly here,” said 
Luke ; “ and so there need be no false sentiment. 
You seem a bit shocked at me. My dear boy, I only 
say what other people mean and do. Of course, if I 
were a candidate for parliamentary honors, or any- 
thing of that sort, I should say something quite the 
opposite of this ; but then, I ’m not. At present I ’m 
in for making money, and of getting the whip hand 
of the man who got the better of me.” 

For a little while there was silence between us. 
Each of the three who had been speaking smoked 
vigorously, while I watched their faces anxiously. 

“ And what are you doing with your time ? ” asked 
Ilford, at length. 

“ Very little to any purpose, I am afraid,” said 
Stephen. “ I do what I can up in the City^ which, 
since my uncle’s smash, has been very little ; then I 
write occasionally for the papers.” 

“ Is that all ? ” 

“Not quite; I am trying to study life here in 
Battersea.” 

“ Studying life, eh ? The game *s not worth the 
candle, my lad, not worth the candle. But what led 
you' to think of such a thing?” 

“ A desire to ‘ know,’ for one thing. As you are 


172 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


aware, everything has been upset for me lately, and I 
have had a desire to — to see the truth about things.” 

‘'My dear Stephen, nothing can be known, save 
that men are discontented, miserable, grasping, and 
at bottom bad.” 

Stephen nodded his head. 

“ Give it up, my boy ; it will only make you more 
miserable than ever. Accept the fact that life is 
failure ; then grin and make the best of the failure. 
That ’s the best advice I can give you.” 

“ If it 's a failure,” said Stephen, “ I don’t see the 
use of continuing to play the game.^’ 

“We are prejudiced in its favor. We are living, 
and we want to live; that ’s why the world continues 
to be populated. Besides, most people foolishly hope 
that the future will bring something worth the 
having; and while they have that hope, they will 
hold on. Of course, no hope will ever be realized.” 

“ Then you ’ve no hope ? ” 

“Not a bit. I’ve seen the show; I know all it 
has to give. I coolly accept facts. Life is bad, people 
are bad. I have no silly notions about reformation ; 
I trouble myself about no schemes for the improve- 
ment of various things. Nothing is worth the trouble. 
Let reformers shriek, and make speeches, sign peti- 
tions, and a hundred other things ; let them get more 
kicks than ha’pence for their trouble. Still, there is 
such a thing as comfort, — physical comfort, I mean ; 
there ’s such a thing as intellectual pleasure ; there ’s 
such a thing as pleasant society. So I get what 
comfort and pleasure I can. 1 expect nothing, so I 
am never disappointed ; but what pleasure there is 
in my way, 1 take it, and ask no questions.” 

As I heard Ilford speak in this way, I could not 
help realizing the difference between him and my 
friend to whom he spoke. For my own part, I could 
not believe that Stephen’s old tutor was sincere. He 


THE CYNICS^ VIEWS ON LITERATURE. 173 

professed to give up hope in life, and said he believed 
that people were wholly bad ; yet he could laugh and 
enjoy himself. To me this man’s pessimism was the 
outcome of pure selfishness. But Stephen was dif- 
ferent. He was not selfish, and he was very much 
in earnest. Evil, hopelessness, failure, were more 
than mere names to him, they were terrible realities. 
Belief meant more than an intellectual assent, it 
meant a motive force; consequently it meant infi- 
nitely more to him than to the cynical speaker. 

“ Then what is, briefly, your advice ? ” 

“Be a stoic, my boy. Get what enjoyment you 
can, — of course there ’s no such thing as real enjoy- 
ment, — but get what seems like enjoyment, and 
don’t bother.” 

“ A grand ideal,” said Stephen. 

“ Practical common-sense. Of course, as I Ve told 
you years ago, I had my dreams, my plans, my hopes ; 
but they are all gone. I believed in the virtue of 
women and the honor of men ; now, well, I accept 
facts, and go on.” 

“Then you are a mere time-server?” 

“ A time-server with this understanding. People 
profess a hatred of time-servers, therefore among 
certain people I keep my feelings in the background. 
We like to be thought good and virtuous, and all 
that sort of thing. We all wear a mask, and most 
people shriek if the mask is pulled off*; so I say 
nothing. Still, let me state the case as well as I can. 
If I were going to write a novel, I should pull off a 
part of the mask, because that kind of thing goes 
down with literary critics. I should join the so-called 
realistic school, and describe the cesspools and sewers 
of life. By the way, you used to talk about writing 
a novel ; have you commenced yet ? ” 

“ I ’ve been studying life here partly for that 
purpose.” 


174 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


We all looked at him, expecting him to say some- 
thing more ; but he gazed steadily into the fire, and 
went on smoking. 

‘‘ Ah,” said Luke Edgcumbe, approvingly, there 's 
method in your madness, after all. A real slashing 
novel makes a sensation, and brings fame and fortune 
to the writer.” 

“ Depends,” said Ilford. 

“ Depends on what ? ” asked I. 

“ Well, on several things. It must he caustic, and 
it must be politely dirty. The novel must hinge on 
some — on something that touches on the social 
proprieties, and throw out innuendoes concerning 
certain phases of life that I need not mention. It 
must be devoid of all purpose, because literary critics 
and favorite novelists tell us that purpose destroys 
art. But, above all, it must be delightfully immoral.” 

“ Come, come, now,” I interposed. 

“ That is essential,” went on Ilford. ‘‘ Of course, I 
mean that it must be immoral, judged by Mrs. Grundy’s 
standard of morality. Still, it must profess to side 
with Mrs. Grundy, while it goes the whole way in 
the other direction. Then the death-rate in the book 
must be high, and it must end miserably. If the 
hero and the heroine get married and live happily 
according to the old ideas, the book will die in its 
birth. Whatever else happens, the book must not 
end cheerfully, and the people the reader is most 
interested in must meet with some miserable fate.” 

But why ? ” 

“ Because the critics will be down upon it other- 
wise.” 

“ Again, why ? ” 

‘‘ It is evident,” said Ilford, “ that you have not 
studied literary papers. If you had, you would not 
think of questioning my statement. As it happens, 
I am interested in these things, and read the reviews. 


THE CYNICS^ VIEWS ON LITERATURE. 175 


Of course my remarks do not apply so much to the 
old favorite writers. They have made their public, 
and are practically careless about reviewers. I am 
now referring to young and unknown writers. Why, 
think of the young novelists who have sprung into 
fame during the last decade, and then remember the 
nature of their work. All of them have fulfilled the 
conditions I have laid down. And, more than that, 
each one of them has been written up by these 
journalists.” 

But there are writers who leap into fame with- 
out the influence of the press,” I suggested, “and 
whose writings are pure and clean.” 

“ But they are seldom admitted into literary cir- 
cles,” said Ilford, “ and they are frequently told that 
their writings are * not literature! Besides, where one 
succeeds in this way, a hundred fail. No, Stephen, 
my lad, if you intend to succeed as a novelist, you 
must make friends with the mammon of unright- 
eousness, in the shape of the reviewers, and get written 
up.” 

Stephen did not reply, but he seemed to be tliink- 
ing deeply. 

“ But, Mr. Ilford,” I said, “ after all, is the public 
so much influenced by the press as you say ?” 

“ Dr. Koberts, scarcely anything is read until it 
becomes the rage ; and when a book becomes the 
rage, no matter how imbecile it is, it is praised. But 
how does a book become the rage ? How can it ? 
Either the publisher or the author gets these news- 
paper men to insert hosts of puffing paragi’aphs, until 
the tiling is talked about.” 

“ Then the public ” 

“ Are like a flock of sheep. One goes, and the rest 
follow. I know this is rank heresy, but we must 
take things as we find them. Come, now, Stephen, 
you are very quiet ; tell us what your ideas are.” 


176 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS, 


“ That if life ’s as you say, nothing ’s worth the 
effort,” replied Stephen. 

“ Quite true ; and yet things must be judged rela- 
tively. Life ’s a poor affair ; still, we must make the 
best of it. Being popular, and praised, and all that 
kind of thing, is perfectly worthless ; but then, it ’s 
better than being nobody, or being abused. To have 
money is more comfortable than being penniless ; 
therefore swim with the tide, and grasp at the things 
which the world calls sweet. Of course they are 
not really sweet, but they are less bitter than some 
other things, and they make life less painful and 
unbearable.” 

“ Ah, well ! ” said Stephen, wearily, I shall see ; I 
can’t feel my feet yet.” 

Meanwhile,” said Luke Edgcumbe, “do you 
intend to stay here, and go on as you have been 
going ? ” 

“ I suppose so — for a time. Why ? ” 

“Well, because I hope you will not. I came to- 
night to try and persuade you to be reasonable. I 
can give you a good allowance, and I want you to 
be as comfortable as you can. Forget all this busi- 
ness, and try to swallow your scruples.” 

“ Have you heard anything of — of — her ? ” 
asked Stephen, witli an effort. 

“ Yes ; I was down at Edgcumbe Hall the other 
day, — it ’s still mine, although I shall keep it quiet 
for a time, — and I heard that she seemed very 
happy. She and that Hussey, it appears, go around 
like lovers.” 

“ No, no ! ” 

“It’s quite true, I saw them myself. She held 
his arm fast, and no ’Arry and Mary out for the day 
could act more like lovers than they were acting. 
They were both laughing gayly, as though they 
enjoyed life.” 


THE CYNICS^ VIEWS ON LITERATURE. 177 


Stephen tugged at his moustache, and I saw his hand 
tremble; then I knew that he loved her still, and 
that his uncle’s words were like daggers in his heart. 

“ What are you going to do about it ? ” continued 
his uncle. 

“ Nothing.” 

" Then you are a great fool ! ” 

“ Most likely.” 

“ You still believe in her ? ” 

Stephen was silent. 

“ Stephen, my lad,” broke in Ilford, “ don’t trouble 
about her. It seems to me you’ve got rid of her 
nicely. There is not more than one woman in a 
thousand who is faithful and virtuous, and she is not 
that one. Let her go on in the way she ’s going ; 
and if you keep your eyes open, you will soon get 
enough evidence against her to claim your freedom 
from her, even at a virtuous court of law.” 

There was a sneering taunt in the cynic’s voice, as 
well as in his words ; but I do not think he would 
have spoken in such a way, if he had known the 
effect he was having on Stephen. 

“ Do you mean,” cried my friend, that you believe 
Isabella capable of — of that ?” 

Capable ! Why, yes, all women are.” 

“ Ilford,” said Stephen, in a suppressed voice, 
never speak in that way again to me. Do you 
hear ? — never ! If I believed that — I should — but 
never mind — never speak like that again — never ! ” 

He had started to his feet, his face as pale as ashes, 
while his whole body trembled. Even Ilford changed 
color ; he saw he had gone too far. An awkward 
silence ensued, and I tried to think how I could 
turn the conversation, when my landlady entered 
again. 

“ Another gentleman to see Mr. Edgcumbe,” she 
said, handing him a card. 

12 


178 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


Stephen took the card, his hand still trembling. 

“ Colonel Tempest ” he read aloud. ‘‘ Show him 
up.” 

‘‘ Shall I get out of the way, Stephen ? ” I said. 

“ And I ? ” added Ilford. 

“ No, stay,” he said, — “ at least for a time.” 

A few seconds later. Colonel Tempest entered the 
room, panting and blowing his nose very loudly. 
He seemed surprised at seeing Luke Edgcumbe, and 
looked haughtily on Ilford, who regarded him very 
coolly. I noticed, however, that he eagerly went to 
the part of the room where Luke was, and shook 
his hand heartily. 

“ Ah, Edgcumbe,” he said pompously, on your 
feet again ! By Gad, you are a man to admire ! I 
was having an early dinner at the Constitutional, 
with some friends of mine, and they were talking 
about you. They said you had got out of that aftair 
magnificently, and that now you were on your way 
towards making a tremendous pile. Old Nathan 
Eothschild was a child to you, Edgcumbe. But I ’m 
glad, my friend. I was a bit cut up at the time ; 
hut I knew you were not the man to sink under such 
a difficulty. Why, you ’ll soon be richer than ever.” 

This speech was delivered very pompously, accom- 
panied by much panting and many theatrical ges- 
tures. Evidently the Colonel had some purpose in 
seeking to be friendly. Before Luke could reply, 
however, Stephen caught the Colonel by the arm. 

I want you to tell me about my wife,” he said 
slowly, in a low voice. 


CURRENT MORALITY. 


179 


CHAPTEE YII. 


CURRENT MORALITY. 


Be not righteous overmuch. ... Be not overmuch wicked, 
neither be thou foolish. — Solomon. 


HE Colonel looked at his son-in-law for a few 



1 seconds, as though he were in doubt how to 
proceed ; then he said loudly, — 

“ Ah, Stephen Temple, my boy, I came to tell 
you — came to settle things. This is a very sad 
state of affairs ; I don’t like it. I have said so to 
Isabella dozens of times. I should like to be alone 
for a few minutes with you.” 

“Gentlemen,” I said, “there is another room at 
our disposal, if you will be good enough to follow 


me. 


“ Thank you, thank you, young Daniel, — that is 
Dr. Eoberts and Mr. — Mr. Ilford ; so sorry to trouble 
you. I hope to see you again in a few minutes ; 
especially do I want to have a chat with Edgcumbe.” 

As it happened, however, neither of us saw the 
Colonel any more that night ; but Stephen told me 
what had taken place. 

“I — I came with my daughter’s — that is — 
consent,” began the Colonel. 

“ Yes,” said Stephen ; “ why has she not answered 
my letters ? ” ' 

“ Oh, young people will be young people. Why, 
even old fellows like I am get a bit huffy now and 


180 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


then, when we don^t get our own way — ha, ha I ” 
and the Colonel laughed uneasily. 

Stephen did not reply, but waited. 

“ Isabella is a Tempest,” went on the Colonel, "and 
she has a temper ; all the Tempests have ; I ’m glad 
of it. Well, Stephen Temple, she did n’t like your 

— nonsense, neither did I. And although my girl 
is breaking her heart for you, she thinks you have n’t 
treated her well, and her Tempest pride says you 
must make some — some — that is — concessions.” 

“ What concessions ? ” 

"Just like a lawyer. Stephen Temple, you nail 
me right down to one point. Well, she only wants 
you to be reasonable, and — and — you can be now 

— easily.” 

" Yes ; how ? ” 

" Well, my friend Edgcumbe has weathered the 
storm, and has brought his ship safely into harbor. 
Isn’t that poetical — eh? Well, he’s a rich man 
again, to all intents and purposes, and no doubt will 
give you a good allowance. After all, I ’in almost 
glad you acted as you did, and I Ve said since, 

‘ Stephen Temple was wise, after all ; * it would n’t 
have been safe to take an allowance then, with all 
those — those — pesky bankruptcy proceedings pend- 
ing. But now it’s all over. You can have a good 
allowance again ; and when that is arranged, you — 
you can take your wife to your heart once more, and 

— and be — be happy. Come now, what do you 
say ? ” 

At first Stephen was staggered by the barefaced 
audacity of the man ; he could hardly understand 
how he could talk so. 

" Am I to understand, then, that if my uncle will 
give me a good allowance, Isabella will consent to 
come back to me?” 

"Yes, dear boy. We want to see you happy, both 


CURRENT MORALITY. 


181 


Edgcumbe and I. Edgcumbe promised an allowance 
when — when we parted some months ago; and I 
know he is willing to renew his offer now everything 
is settled. Come, now, say yes, and 1 11 order a bowl 
of punch on the strength of it.” 

“ And is this the only condition on which Isabella 
will come back to me ? ” 

“ Why, of course. You could n’t expect Isabella, a 
Tempest, and the wife of a Temple,” — here the 
Colonel expanded his chest, — “to go into lodgings 
and slave like the daughter of any Dick, Tom, or 
Harry. No, Stephen Temple ; family is family, and 
blood is blood. Isabella Tempest Temple Edgcumbe 
must do nothing unworthy her name ; she must live 
like a lady wherever she goes. I am a poor man ; 
but, thank God, I ’ve taught her the rights of a lady.” 

“ Which is most worthy the rank of a lady ? ” 
asked Stephen : “ to live in comparative luxury on 
money to which she has no right, or to live in com- 
parative poverty on money honestly earned ? ” 

“ What do you mean ? ” asked the Colonel. 

“What right have I to an allowance from my 
uncle ? ” asked Stephen. “ He has not paid his credi- 
tors more than a third of what he owed them.” 

“ The whole matter has been settled at a court of 
law; the law has passed judgment,” replied the 
Colonel, '' and thus Edgcumbe is free.” 

“ The law has nothing to do with it. Whatever 
the law says, he owes this money ; it does not belong 
to him, but his creditors.” i 

“ I respect the majesty of the law,” replied the 
Colonel. “ True, I don’t like these bankruptcy pro- 
ceedings ; they are — are — well, infra dig. ; . but the 
affair is over ; and what your uncle has now, is his 
own. Come now, Stephen Temple, you want your 
wife, and your wife wants you. Let us settle things 
amicably.” 


182 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“ I do want my wife,” said Stephen ; “ but if she 
will come under no other conditions than these, I 
must remain as I am.” 

“Do you mean to say you will not take this 
money ? ” 

“ Certainly not.” 

The Colonel turned purple. “Kefuse a thousand 
a year ? ” he gasped. 

“ Certainly, if it is not my own, and does not come 
to me fairly.” 

“ You — you blackguard ! ” he cried. You marry 
my daughter, you take her away from home, you 
low-lived scoundrel, then you discard her.” 

“I don’t,” replied Stephen; “I will only too 
gladly welcome her back, if she will come as a wife 
should.” 

“ A Tempest come back to lodgings such as you 
can give her ! ” shouted the Colonel ; “ never ! A 
pretty sense of honor you ’ve got, to marry a wife 
and then expect her father to keep her.” 

“ You know it is a lie,” said Stephen. “ Ever since 
she left, I have sent her, as you know, every farthing 
I could scrape together.” 

“ A paltry trifle ! ” 

“ It was all I had,” said Stephen ; “ and certainly 
not too small a sum for you to accept. Come, 
Colonel, don’t make me think worse of you than I 
think already. Have some sense of honor ! ” 

“ You say this to me ! ” gasped the Colonel ; “ but 
you shall suffer for it. But I ’ll no longer breathe 
such polluted air.” 

A little later, Stephen called us back again, and I 
knew from his pale, blanched face how keenly he 
had been suffering. He never said anything that 
night, however, and shortly after, both his uncle and 
Ilford took their leave. 

“ Look here, Stephen,” said Ilford, before they left. 


CURRENT MORALITY. 


183 


“ don’t make yonr life more miserable than yon can 
help. Make the best of this dirty world, my lad. 
Go into society, and drink what pleasures it has. 
Give up these foolish ideals of yours, accept facts, 
and make the best of them.” 

“ Thank you,” said Stephen ; and then he held out 
his hand to his uncle. 

“I shall give you no advice,” said Luke; ''you 
know what I think, and what I will gladly do for 
you ; ” and I could n’t help seeing a look of real affec- 
tion shining out of the cynic’s eyes. 

For some time after this I thought I saw a slight 
change for the better in my friend ; that is, he looked 
happier. He seemed to forget his dark, gloomy fore- 
bodings, and was more like his old self. 

During the time I had lived in Battersea, I had 
become acquainted with several well-to-do families 
living at Wandsworth Common, and I was often in- 
vited to houses at Clapham Common. I had spoken 
about Stephen to people I knew, and had so interested 
them in him that on one or two occasions when they 
had invited me to their houses, an invitation had also 
come for my friend. Up to this time he had refused 
them ; but when one day — about a fortnight after 
his uncle's visit — I showed him a letter containing 
an invitation to a gathering at a house at Clapham 
Common both for myself and him, he told me he 
would be very glad to accompany me. 

Accordingly, on the evening in question, we started 
for Clapham Common. On our way I called to see 
a patient who lived in one of the streets at the back 
of Queen’s Eoad. She was an old woman nearly 
seventy years of age, and was troubled a great deal 
with bronchitis. Although the spring was now ad- 
vancing, it was very cold, and I had told her that if 
she expected to get better, good fires were essential. 
When we entered the room which she occupied, — for 


184 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


Stephen went with me, — we found her sitting beside 
the ghost of a fire, having sold, as she told me, an 
article of furniture to buy coals. 

“I was ’bliged to do it,” she explained, ‘'and ’twas 
’ard ; you see; ’t was bought by my ’usband afore ee 
died. Poor Bill, ee did n’ think ’t w’ould come to 
this ! But I ’m a-goin’ to start to-morrow, I am. Two 
of my old customers hev kept some things for me ; 
so now, please God, 111 rub on all right till next 
winter.” 

“ What do you do for a living ? ” asked Stephen. 

“I’m a laundress,” replied the woman. “Ye see, 
I ’m not strong enough to go out a-charin’ like I used 
to, and I takes ’ome the washin’, and I does it as I ’m 
able. I ’ve got a good bit behind wi’ my rent while 
I’ve bin poorly, and you know washin’ is bad for 
the bronchitis. Ye see, what with the steam, and 
the heat indoors, and then a-takin’ back the things 
in the cold, ’t is ter’ble, tryin’, ter’ble ; but summer is 
cornin’ on now, so I don’t mind.” 

“And how much do you owe for rent?” asked 
Stephen. 

“ I owe four weeks,” replied the old woman, “ and 
that at five shillin’ a week do make a pound.” 

“ And how much can you earn when you are in full 
work ? ” 

“ Oh, sometimes I make as much as twelve shillin’, 
but it do seldom get to more ’n ten.” 

“Then how will you manage to pay your back 
rent ? ” 

“ Oh, I ’ll have to do it by littles, I will. My land- 
lord hev bin patient with me, ’cause I ’ve bin ’ere so 
long, and paid so reg’lar. I can do all right in the 
summer. It ’s the winter I dread so.” 

“ And how old are you ? ” 

“ I wer sixty-nine last Christmas. You see, I ’m 
not so spry as I was, and my joints ache a goodish 


CURRENT MORALITY. 


185 


bit ; but I ’m a-goin’ to try and keep out of the big 
house as long as I can.” 

“ A most respectable, deserving old woman,” I said 
to Stephen when we left the house a few minutes 
later. “ Sober and industrious.” 

“ Are there many like her ? ” he asked. 

“ Oh, yes, many. Battersea is crowded with laun- 
dry people.” 

“ And are they all as badly off as she ? ” 

“ Most old people are worse. You see, she ’s sober 
and saving.” 

“ Saving 1 ” he exclaimed. “ God have mercy upon 
them ! It seems to me that those who drink and 
drown their care are best off.” 

Little more was said about the question just then, 
and, soon after, we reached the house of Mrs. Augus- 
tus Price. This lady’s house was exceedingly popular, 
and that for many reasons. First of all, Mrs. Augus- 
tus Price was very popular. Mr. Augustus Price, 
who had been, when in the flesh, an egg and butter 
merchant, had left her in possession of a considerable 
amount of money. She had set up an establishment 
at Kensington, and tried to be a leader in fashionable 
society; but somehow she failed. It is true, her 
money gained her admission to many desirable 
houses ; but she did not climb to the position she 
wanted. She therefore removed to Clapham Com- 
mon, where, although the people were not so highly 
connected as those in Kensington, she established 
herself as a queen of a certain order. Mrs. Price, 
who was about thirty-five years of age, prided herself 
upon having many unconventional ideas. “ I’ m orig- 
inal, or I ’m nothing,” she often said ; and so she 
sought to maintain her reputation by making her 
house a rendezvous for people holding all shades of 
opinions. And such is the power of gold, accom- 


186 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


panied by an amount of beauty, shrewdness, and 
audacity, that she accomplished what she desired. 

“ I hn a woman of open mind,” she said. What 
are opinions ? A matter of temperament, education, 
and associations. All sorts of opinions shall be 
represented at my house.” 

And, true to her word, all sorts of opinions were 
represented there. The High Church vicar and the 
Radical Dissenting parson met there ; and, although 
each hated the other’s ways like poison, they pock- 
eted their dislike and accepted Mrs. Price’s invitation, 
not caring to make any enemy of a lady who gave 
such delightful dinners, and whose checks were so 
acceptable. The Socialist also sat at her table, pro- 
viding he were sufficiently respectable, as well as the 
rigid Conservative. Theosophists, atheists, agnostics, 
frocked curates, and believers in all sorts of New 
Jerusalems received Mrs. Price’s invitations. 

“ Let them be clever, well educated, well dressed, 
and — respectable,” Mrs. Price would say, and the 
more curious their opinions the better. They give 
life, interest ; they are like a dash of absinthe in bad 
water.” 

Mrs. Augustus Price’s gatherings, then, were of a 
cosmopolitan nature ; and, as I expected, when Ste- 
phen and I arrived, her house was full of people 
holding very diverse opinions. 

Stephen immediately made a good impression on 
our hostess. She saw in an instant that he was 
clever, and his fine, interesting face, added to what I 
had said to her concerning him, won her interest 
immediately. 

“ You ’ve been asked in a most unconventional 
way, Mr. Edgcumbe,” she said ; “ but then I ’m an 
unconventional woman — in fact, I hate what ’s sup- 
posed to be proper. So you ’ll find people here 
holding all sorts of views, but mostly they are people 


CURRENT MORALITY. 


187 


of — brains. In fact, whatever else I can dispense 
with, I cannot dispense with — brains. Money I 
care little about, social position does n’t trouble me, 
but brains — I adore ! So I try and make my gath- 
erings feasts of reason. There’ll be little or no 
dancing, and that kind of thing ; but conversation on 
art, science, literature, and — religion — all sorts of 
it, you know.” 

I felt the speech to be loud, and not in the best of 
taste ; but Mrs. Price was a fine-looking woman, and 
she smiled very sweetly on Stephen, who seemed to 
appreciate her welcome. 

Certainly there was no restraint at Mrs. Price’s 
house. The people were chatting very freely, and the 
conversation was not of the nature which one too 
often finds in polite gatherings. Society small-talk 
was at a discount. As our hostess had said, the 
people had brains, and thus music, pictures, politics, 
and books were discussed with a great deal of clever- 
ness. 

I was glad, too, to see that my friend was appreci- 
ated in the circle. For my own part I was never a 
gifted talker, and I wondered why Mrs. Price cared to 
have me ; but I soon saw that Stephen would become 
a favorite. Before long I noticed him in earnest 
conversation with a young lady, whom I cannot 
describe better than by saying she was straw-colored. 
Her hair was straw-colored, including her eye- 
lashes and eyebrows, her skin was straw-colored, 
the trimmings of her dress were straw-colored, — 
in fact, that was the chief characteristic about her 
appearance. 

‘‘ I never go into ordinary society during Lent,” 
she said, and of course we are in the middle of Lent 
now. I would n’t go to a theatre or to a dance for 
the world during Lent, you know, although I adore 
theatres and dances, as a general thing. But, of 


188 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


course, Mrs. Price’s evenings are different ; they are 
so serious, so intellectual, you know, and we talk on 
all subjects seriously.” 

Are you a Catholic ? ” 

“A Catholic, but not a Eoman Catholic. I belong 
to the Anglican Church, St. Mary Magdalene’s, you 
know. It ’s delightfully high, of course. I hate low 
churches.” 

“ And you don’t call this going into ordinary 
society ? ” 

“ Oh, dear, no. Of course, I would n’t come here on 
a Friday ; but even our curate, the Kev. Mr. Cross, is 
here to-night, and I believe our vicar, the Eev. Canon 
Tovely, is coming presently ; so you see I ’m quite 
safe.” 

“ Oh, yes, quite safe,” said Stephen, with a smile. 

‘‘ Is n’t it delightful to see such trust and faith in 
our spiritual pastors and masters, Mr. Edgcumbe ? ” 
said some one close to him. 

Stephen turned and saw a man about fifty, with 
blear eyes and an iron gray moustache, who had been 
introduced to him as Mr. Hunter. 

“ Delightful, indeed,” responded Stephen. 

‘‘Not that I am guilty of such trust and faith 
myself,” laughed the man, with a leer ; “ but I 
appreciate it in those who do, especially in Miss 
Coolie ; ” and he bowed to the straw-colored young 
lady. 

“I’m a sad rake myself,” he went on; “but per- 
haps I ’ll be converted at the eleventh hour — ha, ha ! ” 

Before he could reply, a loud voice arrested his 
attention, and it was the voice of a woman. 

“ The great thing needed,” she said, “ is that our 
social laws be reformed. For my own part I ’m a 
Socialist, and I’m proud of being one. Surely it 
cannot be right that three millions, of people should 
be left uncertain of the absolute necessities of life, 


CURRENT MORALITY. 


189 


while hereditary landlords revel in wealth they have 
never earned.” 

“ Oh,” said Mr. Hunter, “ our fair friend. Miss Dart, 
is at it again.” 

“ I have just been reading reports on the dwellings 
of the poor, and the condition of things is terrible, 
terrible in extreme. Seven, eight, and sometimes a 
dozen people living in one small room. This must be 
remedied.” 

“ What would you suggest ? ” asked some one. 
“Would it not be well if you set an example by 
spending a few thousands on model cottages ? You 
might immortalize yourself at the same time.” 

“ Ho, indeed,” said Miss Dart. “ What is wanted, 
and what lies at the root of the evil, is the fact that 
the ground landlord is not sufficiently taxed. Nay, 
I am, after all, dealing superficially. What is wanted 
is that landlordism shall be destroyed. Landlords 
who have a clear right to the land to be compensated, 
of course.” 

“ Miss Dart is a stockbroker’s daughter,” said the 
Eev. Mr. Cross to Stephen ; “ she is a Socialist and a 
Dissenter. Her father made money by being sharper 
on the Exchange than other people, and by taking 
advantage of other men’s weakness and ignorance.” 

Dinner was announced, and Stephen sat next to 
Miss Dart, who seemed pleased at having him for a 
companion. 

“ Of course you are a Socialist, Mr. Edgcumbe ? ” 
she said questioningly, after soup had been served. 

“ I hardly know,” replied Stephen. “ You see. 
Socialism is a subject with serious issues. How do 
you define it ? ” 

“ Oh, the land being nationalized ; railroads, coal- 
mines, gas-works, and all those things made the prop- 
erty of the people ; the House of Lords abolished, 
and all members of the Commons paid. I should 


190 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


insist on payment of members, or how can we have 
proper representation, Mr. Edgcumbe ? Everybody 
happy, and just a lovely time altogether.” 

“ It is a beautiful picture, no doubt,” said Stephen, 
“ only there is the fact of human nature that comes 
in.” 

“ Oh, I trust the people. I ’m a friend of the peo- 
ple, and I perfectly dote on the working-man, Mr. 
Edgcumbe — perfectly dote on him. We had one 
speaking at the Advance Club last night, and he 
spoke splendidly. Oh, yes, I love the working man ; 
don’t you, Mr. Edgcumbe ? ” 

“ I ’m afraid I ’m behind the times. Miss Dart ; but 
I’m glad to see you so euthusiastic ; ” and he gave 
her a look which was not lacking in admiration. 

She was certainly rather handsome. She was not 
tall, but well formed, and finely developed. Buxom 
and healthy rather than graceful, she was still fasci- 
nating. She was handsomely dressed too, and on her 
fingers flashed costly rings, while on her neck hung a 
diamond necklace. 

“ I am glad I have met one so full of sympathy 
towards the poor. It so happens I am interested in 
a poor old woman just at present. ' ETo doubt you 
will be able to go and see her ; ” and he related the 
incident which I have described in the early part of 
this chapter. 

“No, Mr. Edgcumbe, no,” she said; “that is not 
my way of working. For my own part, I don’t 
think much of individual help. Clothing societies 
and soup-kitchens are mere palliatives; they don’t 
go to the root of the matter. And nothing can 
be done until we destroy the present system of 
things.” 

“ And meanwhile the starving must remain starv- 
ing?” 

“ Well, you see, we must work in our own way, 


CURRENT MORALITY, 


191 


mustn’t we, Mr. Edgcumbe? Of course you are in 
favor of the abolition of capital punishment ? ” 

Stephen shrugged his shoulders ; he was getting a 
little weary of Miss Dart. Before he could reply, 
however, his attention was diverted by a conversation 
which was being carried on at another part of the 
table. 


192 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS, 


CHAPTER VIII. 

UNCONVENTIONAL SOCIETY. 

The man who worships in the temple of knowledge must carry 
his arms with him, as our Puritan forefathers had to do when they 
gathered in their first rude meeting-houses. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

said a gentleman, who I afterwards learnt 

X was a leader-writer for one of the daily 
papers, and whose voice had attracted Stephen’s 
attention, ‘‘there is no doubt about women having 
their rights. I hope the men will be getting theirs 
soon.” 

“ Men have always had their rights, but women 
are being emancipated at last,” responded Miss Dart. 
“ Even young girls to-day are taking an interest 
in serious things.” 

“ Taking an interest, my dear young lady, — tak- 
ing an interest ; they are among the most important 
factors of our times.” 

“ And perfectly right.” 

“ Oh, doubtless. The world has suffered too long 
for the want of their experience and influence, far 
too long. But things are mending ; they are taking 
the place of the old folks altogether. Time was 
when they were a little patronized. There were 
books specially written for young girls, and approved 
by the older folks ; now, as -was suggested in a leader 

in the Daily the other day, the young girls 

ought to sample the libraries and pick out the books 


UNCONVENTIONAL SOCIETY. 


193 


not fit for the old folks to read. And really the 
suggestion is worth considering. Why should the 
old folks’ morals be endangered by the books which 
our girls write and read to-day ? You see, these old 
folks mostly believe in the sacredness of marriage, 
and such old-fashioned ideas. Why, then, should 
books be placed in their hands dealing with these 
questions ? Of course, girls should be versed in the 
seamy side of things, and should grapple with mar- 
riage relations, improvement of marriage laws, and so 
on. They should study the life of these heroines 
who believe in making divorce easy, or, better still, 
do away with the marriage ceremony altogether. 
And of course the old folks should have such books 
kept out of their way ; they would endanger their 
old-fashioned moral codes.” 

Stephen was attracted by the half-bantering, half- 
cynical tone of the speaker, and was a little aston- 
ished that the speech caused no surprise ; but then 
he reflected on the words of his hostess. She hated 
conventionality. 

“ For my part,” said Miss Dart, “ I do not see why 
thoughtful women should be tied down to old codes 
of morality. We must think our own thoughts, and 
adapt ourselves to the times in which we live. If 
our codes are higher than those gone before, surely 
the old ones should die out.” 

“ Hear, hear,” said a man whom I had not seen 
before, — a man who, Mrs. Price assured me, pre- 
tended to believe in all creeds, so far as they agreed 
with his own inclinations, and who prided himself 
upon being called a latitudinarian. ‘‘I agree with 
our fair friend Miss Dart. Every age must work 
out its own system ; every country must be guided 
by what it deems best, regardless of tradition. Be- 
sides, what is the use of glossing over matters ? 
Questions are in the air, and they are talked about, 
13 


194 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


and I know no better place to properly discuss them 
than in novels. For my part, I regard the realistic 
school of novelists as being a great boon to our time ” 

“ Meanwhile,” said Mr. Holland, the leader-writer, 
“ I think the old folks ought to be considered. And 
so I hope that a few writers of the Dickens and Sir 
Walter Scott order, who take no delight in so-called 
modern problems, will be allowed to write for these 
dear, ignorant old people. Of course the mental 
pabulum of our young people, especially our young 
girls, must be highly spiced, as they can’t be ex- 
pected to enjoy good old love stories ; but I do plead 
for the mothers and fathers who, in spite of the spirit 
of the age, enjoy old-fashioned, healthy romances.” 

'‘Isn’t Mr. Holland old-fashioned?” said Miss 
Dart to Stephen ; “ that is, he seems to be ; but no 
one really knows what his views are.” 

Stephen answered her as briefly as possible, and 
then turned to Mr. Holland. 

“ Don’t you think,” he said, “ that the kind of 
literature issued is altogether a matter of supply and 
demand?” 

" I suppose so. The cry now is for realism. The 
critics laugh at books not realistic ; the modern young 
lady throws aside the books not realistic. And so- 
called realism generally means dirt.” 

" And the publishers ? ” 

" The publishers produce that which will sell. They 
are business men, and they respond to the call of the 
novel-reading public, which consists mostly of women 
— young women.” 

“ Then the call of young women is for dirt 'I ” 

“ Delightfully frank,” said Mrs. Price ; " but I do 
like frankness.” 

“ But cruelly correct,” said Mr. Holland. 

“We move forward, you see,” said Mrs. Price. 

This is a truth-loving age, and we will have truth, 


UNCONVENTIONAL SOCIETY. 


195 


at whatever cost. Certain things exist, whether we 
know about them or not. How can they be removed 
unless they are brought to light ? ” 

“ Excuse me,” said Stephen, but do realistic 
writers describe certain phases of life for the purpose 
of reforming them ? Are they not spoken of as ne- 
cessary accompaniments of our existence, and the 
natural outcome of our natures ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied Mr. Holland ; “ the modern society 
novel is delightfully free from moral purpose. You 
see,' moral purpose is inimical to art, and the moment 
a writer condescends to point a moral he is regarded 
as a bore. Oh, you know we must have art, what- 
ever becomes of morals. Art, as interpreted by a 
certain clique, is the god worshipped in literary 
coteries, my dear friends,” and Mr. Holland’s gray 
eyes twinkled ; “ if ever you write a novel that is to 
be successful, you must bow the knee to the critics’ 
ideas of AET.” 

“ And morals ? ” suggested Stephen. 

“ My dear sir, who troubles about morals ? Did 
not Mr. Berryman tell us just now that morals were 
mere questions of taste, age, education, and nation- 
ality, — mere trifles, in fact ; but art — of course art, 
as popularly understood, never changes.” 

A sally of laughter was the response to this speech ; 
but I saw by Stephen’s face that he saw no reason to 
laugh. His intense nature, which had been darkened 
by his experiences, was deeply moved by this talk. 

“And what kind of a moral condition does this 
prove ? What of the general condition of the people 
whose tastes lie in this direction ?” he asked. 

I saw a general shrug of the shoulders, and then 
Mr. Holland replied, — 

“ Logic is a bad thing, Mr. Edgcumbe ; never 
trouble with logic. Don’t you see where it 'will lead 
you?” 


196 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


The conversation was becoming more and more 
painfully interesting to Stephen. To many who sat . 
at the table the questions discussed meant little. 
True, anything slightly novel was interesting to 
them, especially if it had a tendency to destroy ex> 
isting codes ; but as far as the deep, vital issues were 
concerned, there was little but indifference. Indeed, 

I am inclined to think that the ordinary diner-out, to 
whom such questions give the necessary relish to an 
evening’s gathering, never troubles himself deeply. 

“ Let us have things as highly flavored as we can,” is 
his cry ; but he has no idea how his statements affect 
sensitive, earnest men and women. For my own 
part, I knew that Stephen was going through an 
ordeal, and I felt almost sorry that I had been the 
means of bringing him to this house. However, I 
could do nothing but wait and see what would 
follow. 

“ However,” went on Mr. Holland, “ things will be 
all right shortly. The women claim now that it is 
their work to reform that quintessence of iniquity 
called man. She says — and by * she ’ I mean the 
emancipated woman — that she is in the majority. 

In the past, men have made our social codes, but in 
the future they will be made by women. In the 
past, men have governed the women ; in the future, 
women will govern the men. Ah, those will be 
glorious times ! Once let women’s views, as ex- 
pressed in society novels, become factors in our legis- 
lation, and the millennium will come. I hope I may 
not live to see that day, much as I admire the fair 
sex ; but then, you see, I am an old-fashioned man.” 

“For my own part,” said Stephen, a flush mantling 
his face, “ I trust, and I am trying to believe, that 
you are mistaken. I remember I had a mother; 
and if I lost faith in the purity of womanhood — life 
would be — different.” 


UN CON VENTIONAL SO CIE T Y, 


197 


“Mr. Edgcumbe, hold fast to your beliefs/’ said 
Mr. Holland. “ I, too, remember that I had a 
mother, — and I enshrine my ideal.” 

“We are getting quite sentimental,” said Miss 
Dart. 

“ Quite,” said Mr. Hunter ; “ only unfortunately 
ideals were born in Utopia, and I suspect our mothers 
were like creatures to the fair sex of to-day, only — 
more humdrum. No doubt a pink of propriety looks 
nice in a picture, but she ’s awfully slow and unin- 
teresting. For my own part, I’m glad there is a 
little wickedness in the world; it gives zest, and 
something to talk about.” 

There was a hideous leer on the man’s face as he 
spoke, which betokened him to be what he was, — a 
libertine at heart ; but his speech went unchallenged, 
save for a feeble rejoinder from the curate, to which 
scant respect was paid. That gentleman left imme- 
diately afterwards, however, pleading an engagement 
but I saw that he had been very uncomfortable 
through the dinner, and seemed altogether out of his 
element. 

The talk of the men over their wine need not be 
related here ; at the same time I saw that it affected 
Stephen. The subject was the frailty of women, 
instanced by certain actresses and well-known names 
in certain phases of society. Nothing brutally plain 
was said, but by prurient suggestion and innuendo 
these men expressed their ideas concerning morality. 
Stephen said nothing, but I saw how keenly he 
listened, especially as Mr. Hunter sneered at those 
men who “ believed in the sex.” 

When we joined the ladies, several of them were 
chatting, while Miss Coolie, the straw-colored young 
lady, sang a song. 

“I suppose you know that Miss Coolie is to be 
married shortly ? ” said Miss Dart to Stephen, who 
took a seat by her side. 


198 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“ No ; who is the happy man ? ” 

“Mr. Hunter.” 

“Mr. Hunter!” 

“ Yes ; are you surprised ? He ’s a very good 
catch.” 

“ But she told me she was a communicant at some 
High Church near here. She gave me the impression 
that she was a very religious young lady, that she 
would n’t go to a theatre or dance during Lent, and 
so on.” 

“ Oh, yes, she ’s very religious. Orthodox, you 
know. I ’m religious myself, only not like her. I 
take a great interest in modern thought, and I belong 
to the broad school, which believes in destroying the 
creeds. I expect I subscribe to the broad-thinking 
Unitarian school, the tendency of which is towards 
agnosticism. That seems the drift of all thoughtful 
people nowadays. But Miss Coolie is very ortho- 
dox, and very high. Goes to early Sacrament, and 
all that, you know, attends the confessional, fasts on 
the proper days, and is quite a Church devotee.” 

“ But Mr. Hunter is — is ” 

“No, he’s not quite a saint, is he ?” 

“ But Miss Coolie does n’t know that — that ” 

“ Of course she knows, everybody knows ; but then 
he’s a good catch, and it is regarded as quite the 
thing.” 

And then, as Miss Coolie stopped singing, the 
conversation drifted into other channels. 

As Mrs. Augustus Price said, she could forgive 
almost anything in people as long as they had brains, 
and were respectable. Anyhow, the gathering that 
night was not destitute of brains. Much of the after- 
dinner talk was brilliant, but it was comparatively 
heartless. No question was discussed earnestly, but 
every question was discussed brilliantly. The con- 
dition of the poor was regarded as an interesting 


UNCONVENTIONAL SOCIETY. 


199 


topic, and many clever things were said ; but nothing 
indicated an earnest desire to better it. Politics 
were spoken of, not as a means for the best pos- 
sible legislation, but as a means whereby certain 
men made their mark ; journalism was not so much 
a medium whereby the wants and feelings of the 
people could be voiced, as a means whereby clever 
fellows might have a brilliant career. Eeligion was 
“ a very interesting study for those who liked that 
sort of thing,’’ and so on. 

Even I, who had never been regarded as an enthu- 
siast, could not help feeling how shallow and unreal 
it all was, neither could I help feeling that such an 
atmosphere was not suited to Stephen’s temperament. 
And yet I saw that he was fascinated. I had come 
to see during the last few months, or fancied I had, 
that Stephen’s mind, while of a high order, was still 
parasitical rather than constructive, — a class of mind 
which usually characterizes our sensitive and brilliant 
men. I believed that, clever and earnest as he was, 
it was his nature to fasten on the thoughts of others, 
and work them out to their inevitable issue, rather 
than to be what the world calls original. I knew, 
too, how much he was influenced by his associations. 
Not that I would disparage my friend’s mental 
powers. Most men are qf the parasite order; only 
one man in a million can lay any claim to originality, 
and the writers and speakers who entrance multitudes 
often only give in another form the thoughts of 
others. “ There be many echoes, but few voices,” said 
Goethe. Still, the sensitiveness of his nature, and 
the earnestness with which he looked at life, made 
him far more liable to accept conclusions than men 
of a similar class of mind but of more phlegmatic 
natures. 

I saw, too, that during the evening he conversed 
freely with a man who had spoken during dinner, 


200 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS, 


find whom Mrs. Price had described to me as a gen- 
tleman of latitudinarian tendencies, who was intro- 
duced to us as Mr. John Polden. I noticed, also, 
that after he had talked with Stephen a few minutes, 
he seemed most anxious to be friendly, and made 
every effort to be agreeable. 

“ I do so like your friend. Dr. Eoberts,” said Mrs. 
Price to me. It is refreshing in this cynical age to 
meet with one so frank, so trustful, so transparent. 
But, do you know, he looks as though he has had a 
great sorrow. In fact, some one was telling me that 
he had passed through a domestic trouble. Is it 
true?” 

I made an evasive reply, at which Mrs. Price 
smiled knowingly. 

" At any rate,” she went on, “ he has quite made a 
friend of Mr. Polden. I am so glad. Mr. Polden is 
so sympathetic; and although so tolerant in his 
views, he has such a religious nature. He will be a 
great help to your friend. Is Mr. Edgcumbe wealthy, 
Dr. Eoberts ? Don’t think I trouble about money, I 
only care about people ; but I ask out of curiositj^ 
He is a barrister, you say ; and young barristers are 
often wealthy, are n’t they ? ” 

‘‘ He is not wealthy at present,” I replied. 

“ But he has expectations, eh ? What a pity ! 
Money may spoil his career. Still, John Polden’s 
career will not be spoilt by money. Poor fellow, he 
has not an over-supply.” 

We left just before midnight, and, somewhat to my 
chagrin, Polden insisted on accompanying us home. 
I say chagrin, because I was not drawn to him ; but 
Stephen had taken to him wonderfully, so I said 
nothing. 

“ Do you know, Edgcumbe,” said Polden, — " you ’ll 
excuse me for dropping the Mister, won’t you, but I 
do hate such things among people I like, — I have 


UNCONVENTIONAL SOCIETY. 


201 


great sympathy with the way you spoke. I ’m broad, 
you know, awfully broad ; but I like to believe in 
people, especially women. I believe in their fine 
natures, you know. I believe that such men as 
Hunter misrepresent them, you know. ' Honi soit qui 
mol y pense’ I say, although it does seem a bit strange 
that such a religious girl should marry him.” 

And so he talked on, mostly agreeing with what 
Stephen said, parading the broadness of his sympa- 
thies, but assuring us that he was intensely religious. 

“There’s good in all the sects, you know. What’s 
the matter what we believe ? Very little, I say. The 
question is, are we sympathetic ? are we religious ? if 
we are, everything ’ll square all right.” 

After a while' he began to ask Stephen questions 
about himself, as though he were specially interested 
in him ; but I was glad to see that Stephen had no 
intention of making a confidant of him. I believe, 
however, that Polden had an idea that I hindered 
Stephen from confiding in him, especially as soon 
after he asked for the privilege of being allowed to 
call and see him. 

We were nearing home, and I began to flatter 
myself that we should shortly be rid of his company, 
when an event happened which, although seemingly 
small, proved to be of great significance in my 
friend’s career. It began by our hearing a woman’s 
scream, — evidentl}^ of fear and pain. The screaming 
of women at midnight in Battersea, however, is not 
so rare an occurrence as to call for special remark ; 
and possibly we should have taken but little heed, 
had it not been repeated with terrible vehemence, 
accompanied by brutal words in a man’s voice, with 
a threat to murder. 

We rushed to the spot from whence the sound 
came, and saw a man, mad with drink, holding a 
woman hy the hair, and dragging her brntally around. 


202 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS, 


Of course we at once freed the woman from his grasp, 
while Stephen with no gentle hand kept him from 
repeating the attack. 

“ Let me go,” said the man, with an oath ; “ she ’s 
my wife. I was a fool to marry her; but now she’s 
mine, and I shall do just as I like, I shall.” 

The woman was young, and not bad looking ; but 
I felt sure that she, too, had been drinking ; and it 
was evident, from what the man kept on muttering, 
that they had been quarrelling fiercely. 

Protect me, sir,” said the woman to Stephen ; 
he ’ll kill me if you don’t ; he spends every penny 
he can get, and he treats me ’orribly.” 

“ What shall we do ? ” said Stephen. “ Take the 
fellow to a police-station, or what ? ” 

The man seemed a bit subdued at this, and began 
to be more complaisant. “ He did n’ want to bang 
Moll, he did n’ ; but if the gen’l’men only knew, they ’d 
pity him, they would.” After a few minutes matters 
were arranged amicably, and the affair ended in our 
seeing the man to the rooms he rented close by, the 
fellow promising not to treat his wife unkindly 
again. 

“ What a shame that such a decent-looking woman 
should be tied up to such a fellow ! ” said Polden. 

“ It ’s horrible,” said Stephen ; ‘‘ don’t you think so, 
Dan?” 

“ All such affairs are horrible,” I said ; but as to 
who ’s in fault in this matter, I should n’t like to say. 
Of course, the man is a brutal fellow, or at least he 
behaved brutally ; but the woman is, likely enough, 
as bad as he.” 

“ I don’t believe it,” said Stephen. “ The woman 
struck me as a well-behaved, respectable woman, and 
ought to be shielded from such as he.” 

“ Hear, hear ! ” said Polden. “ That ’s chivalry. Dr. 
Eoberts, chivalry. I think we may safely leave 
Edgcumbe to defend the lady. Eh ? ” 


UNCONVENTIONAL SOCIETY. 


203 


I ’m afraid a radical change will have to take 
place in both of them before they are very good,” I 
said. “ I happen to know many of these people ; 
and ‘ blessed is he that expecteth nothing.’ ” 

“ It ’s not like you to be cynical, Dan,” said 
Stephen ; and as I saw the look on his face, I was 
almost sorry I had spoken. I felt irritable, too, and 
was impatient for Polden to leave us. 

I ’m a bit tired, Steve,” I said ; “ it ’s nearly one 
o’clock, let’s get home.” 

“ So it is,” said Polden. “ Good-night, Edgcumbe ; 
I ’ll call on Sunday, then.” 

A few minutes later we sat before the fire, and 
neither of us expressed any desire to go to bed. 


204 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


CHAPTEE IX. 


THE COMING NIGHT. 


So far from rejecting appearances of virtue in the corrupt heart 
of a depraved race, I am eager to see their light as ever mariner 
was to see a star in a stormy night. — H. W. Beechee. 


HIS night’s experience has been rather curious 



i to me,” said Stephen, after he had been look- 
ing a few minutes into the fire. “ As you know, I 
have never gone into society. In Manchester I was 
pretty much of a recluse, and while Isabella occasion- 
ally went amongst friends, I did not often accompany 
her. I ’m not fond of dancing and that kind of thing, 
you know ; besides, I had my profession. To-night 
has given me a glimpse of a new phase of life.” 

‘‘I’m almost sorry we went,” was my reply. 

“ I ’m not ; I ’m very glad. It ’s well to have one’s 
views widened. How in the world, though, did Mrs. 
Price think of inviting me ? ” 

“ I have her letter here somewhere,” I replied, 
looking into a letter-rack. “Here it is.” 

Dear Dr. Eoberts, — We are having a small gathering 
here on Wednesday next. Most of the people who will 
come, you will like, I know, — reading people, who are 
abreast of the times, and who think for themselves. I’m 
sure they will interest you. And please bring that Mr. 
Edgcumbe with you. Since you spoke to me about him, 
I have felt such a desire to meet him. Do prevail on 
him to come. I sha’n’t know you the next time I meet 


THE COMING NIGHT. 


205 


you if you don’t, so see that you obey me. Excuse this 
unconventional invitation j but you know how I dislike 
ordinary formalities. 

Yours sincerely, 

Agnes A. Price. 


“ What did you tell her about me ? ” 

“ Very little. I said you were clever, exceedingly 
interesting, and dead in earnest.” 

“ Did you hint anything about my — my expe- 
riences ? ” 

“No.” 

“ Ah, well, it was an interesting gathering.” 

“Very; but, believe me, Steve, people are not 
usually so — so little in earnest, are they ? That 
circle does nT represent society. Mrs. Price is a 
character. As she says, she dotes on brains, and she 
wants her house to be famous for the intellectual and 
original character of the gatherings therein. Besides, 
many did not feel comfortable. That curate would n’t 
have been there had not Mrs. Price been one of the 
largest contributors to the church funds. Not that 
she ’s any religion herself, only she has a fad to give 
to certain popular institutions. I was introduced 
there through two clever doctors who promise to be 
famous, and I Ve been since, because I like to know 
what ’s going on.” 

“Just so; I’m glad I went. Mrs. Price is very 
clever, so is that Mr. Holland ; but — but, my word, 
life ’s a curious affair, a dark, dark riddle ! ” 

“ Life as revealed at Mrs. Price’s, Steve. I feel as 
much as you the veneer, the unreality of the whole 
business. I feel how little the so-called social re- 
formers care about reformation; how little the so- 
called philosophers feel the reality and importance of 
the subjects they discuss ; how little the supposed 
religious people care about religion ; and I can see. 


206 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS 


too, what price they set on honor, virtue, purity. But 
life and thought are not truly represented there.” 

“ Where are they represented, then ? In the streets, 
in the churches that we visited, in the public- 
houses ? ” 

“ But you have n’t seen the heart, Steve.” 

“ Have n’t I ? Perhaps not, perhaps not. But since 
I’ve had my eyes opened, and have seen at all, I’ve 
been staggered. Everything has gone to confirm what 
Uncle Luke and Ilford used to say. I’ve been dis- 
illusioned, if ever a man was.” 

“ Steve, things are not so bad as they say. They 
have looked at life through glasses colored in the 
worst way, and they have tried to make you see 
what they’ve seen.” 

“ Don’t mistake me, Dan. I hold fast to a great 
deal that T believed in my boyhood days. You know, 
that often down at Edgcumbe Hall, while Uncle 
Luke convinced my mind, he could n’t convince my 
heart. He and Ilford often made my head believe, 
but my heart still clung fast to my ideals. Lately, 
however, since things have gone wrong, I ’ve remem- 
bered what they said about virtue, about honesty, 
about the truth and purity of women ; and although 
I ’m still holding fast to what I hope, the grasp is 
weakening.” 

“ There are vain, weak, silly women, no doubt,” I 
said ; some are worse than vain, and weak, and silly ; 
many, many are base, degraded, unclean ; but there 
are more good than bad, Steve, more pure than pol- 
luted. Even in Battersea there are thousands of 
true, healthy girls, with minds as clean as a spring 
morning down at our old country home.” 

“ Do you really believe that, Dan, really ? ” 

“ I do, Steve.” 

“I’m trying to believe, too, and the belief helps 
me. You know, Dan, I feel a lot; and yet many 


THE COMING NIGHT. 


207 


people think of me as a fellow to whom goodness 
comes naturally. But, my God, it does n’t 1 Often I 
seem to be at the very brink of hell, and I hear 
with delight the curses coming up from the deep. 
Often I ’m tempted to give up this struggle against 
seeming fate, and let the devil have his fling. Some- 
times I ’m only held to what is right by a very slen- 
der thread, and I can almost hear the little strings 
snapping as the powers of darkness drag me away. 
Somehow I feel as though I can’t go halves about 
things. I can’t pretend to believe in a thing, and 
then not care much whether it is so at all. I must 
really believe, or not at all ; and belief means so 
much to me, more than you can think. To-night, 
when those fellows were so coolly discussing female 
frailty over their wine, I felt like getting up and 
throwing the decanters at their heads. Because they 
are unclean themselves, they believe women are too ; 
and if the women are impure, they have made them 
so — and yet, oh, Dan, it ’s a terrible business ! ” 

“ Don’t look for the evil, Steve; look for the good.” 

" Look for the good ! I ’m trying to, and some- 
times I fancy I see it ; but where can I find it ? I was 
talking with a religious tradesman yesterday, and he 
told me that it was impossible for a tradesman to be 
strictly honest, and still get on ; that all trades had 
their tricks; that each and all tried their best to 
make good bargains, and sought to prey on the igno- 
rance of the men with whom they were dealing ; and 
that the Sermon on the Mount set up an ideal which 
nobody regarded seriously, and which few took into 
account. Trade is rotten ; I ’m told so again and 
again. Go to the Church, and doesn’t the whole 
thing strike you as a sham ? Do you remember the 
Colonel’s conception of religion ? It was nothing 
but the merest convention. As for the parsons, 
was n’t Uncle Luke right ? Fancy archbishops and 


208 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


bishops, with their eight, ten, and fifteen thonsafid a 
year, sending poor agricultural laborers, with ten 
shillings a week, to hell for not believing in their 
church ! Fancy their calling these poor wretches 
brothers, while the mud from their carriage-wheels 
splashes them as they dash by I I say, fancy calling 
these men representatives of Jesus, and successors 
to His apostles ! And this is the Church, the Church 
in the highest places. Fancy these fat Nonconformist 
parsons receiving salary from men whose wealth is 
won by iniquitous and unrighteous means ! Can any 
one believe that the Church as it stands is good ? 
Then where am I to find goodness ? Among the 
Socialists ? Lock, stock, and barrel, you feel the So- 
cialists to be selfish ; and if they occupied the 
same position as the rich men they denounce, they 
would act in a similar way. Where shall I look, 
Dan ? Why, this Battersea is stinking with evil. 
I’ve gone through it by night and by day, and it 
makes me heart-sick. ‘ Look for the good,’ you say ; 
but where, Dan ? ” 

He had started up, and was pacing np and down 
the room, his eyes hashing, his pale face drawn with 
pain. 

“ And so it often comes to this with me,” he went 
on : what ’s the use of trying ? Is what is called sin, 
sin at all ? Were n’t the old Greeks right when they 
said, 'Eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we- 
die ’ ? What is the use of struggling against so-called 
wrong ? Is n’t the tendency of life that way, Dan ? 
But there, it ’s no use talking now. So far, I hold 
fast to the old faith, or I try to. Good-night, old 
fellow ! ” 

He left me then, and went to his bedroom, while 
I sat by the fire and brooded over what he had 
said, and what I had seen and heard during the 
evening. 


THE COMING NIGHT. 


209 


' Two days after, Stephen met the Eev. Mr. Cross, 
the High Church curate whom he had seen at Mrs. 
Price’s gathering. They immediately entered into 
conversation. 

“ I shall never go to that house again,” he said, 
after they had exchanged courtesies. “I’d rather 
resign a hundred curacies than sit and listen while 
faith and hope are maligned.” 

“Yes,” replied Stephen; “from your standpoint it 
would be a godless affair.” 

“It was blasphemous. Those people sought to 
undermine the foundations of all that is good and 
true. Besides, I have much to do ; ” and he passed 
his thin hand across his forehead. 

“ There ’s plenty of work in Battersea,” remarked 
Stephen. 

“Work! But for the grace of God, it would kill 
me. Sin, sin, black -sin, Mr. Edgcumbe. I ’ve been 
here a year and half, and I think another year and 
half will take me to my grave.” 

“ And what success have you ? ” 

“ Only a little, I ’m afraid. There are so many 
forces against us. Our enemies are, in a sense, those 
of our own household. There is too little religion ; 
and that little the devil often uses as a weapon with 
which to fight against us.” 

“ I do not understand.” 

“ I mean, there is so much free-trade in religion. 
Dissent is playing into the enemies’ hands. You see, 
men as individuals, society as a whole, cannot be 
safe while they stay outside the Church. That is 
the only harbor of refuge. By and by there will, of 
course, be one fold and one Shepherd ; but at present 
all is division. If all these schismatics would come 
back to the Church, be governed by her priests and 
receive her sacraments, then would the New King- 
dom begin. I do not want to condemn Dissenters ; 

14 


210 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


but if they only knew how they binder salvation, 
they would surely repent.” 

Stephen, who had no wish to enter into a religious 
discussion with him, did not think well to present 
another side of the subject ; but, instead, he recom- 
mended to the curate the case of the old woman we 
had visited on our way to the house at which they 
had met. 

“ I have visited her,” said Mr. Cross ; “ but I cannot 
help her, because she will not be helped.” 

“How?” 

“ She is a Dissenter, and I cannot take the chil- 
dren’s food and cast it to the dogs.” 

“ Surely that is a strong expression.” 

“ Mr. Edgcumbe, you don’t know what I feel. I 
long to give these people help ; but how can I ? By 
so doing, I encourage the sin of schism. I promised 
the woman that if she would come to church I would 
help her ; but I dared not, for my soul’s sake, give 
her assistance while she remained outside the true 
Church, for by so doing I should condone her sin ; I 
should act as though her being a Dissenter were 
nothing.”. 

“ But surely,” said Stephen, “ the claims of human- 
ity are stronger than what at most is a mere matter 
of opinion.” 

“ Matter of opinion ! it is a thousand times more 
than that. It is essential to salvation, and I could 
not feed the woman’s body, when, by so doing, I 
glossed over the starvation of her soul.” 

“ But the woman struck me as true and pure.” 

“The devil will at times deceive God’s own 
elect.” 

“ But, Mr. Cross, don’t you see where your actions 
drift ? You will help some idle, thriftless, drunken 
person, who does n’t mind telling a lie and coming 
to church in order to obtain your gifts ; and by so 


THE COMING NIGHT. 


211 


doing you encourage the evil, and refuse to help the 
good” 

“ Do you think I have not thought of that ! the 
devil has tempted me with it hundreds of times. 
But what have I to do with it ? If they deceive me, 
the sin is at their door, not mine. My garments are 
clean. I have given the professed children of the 
Church the offerings of the Church, and, by so doing, 
I believe I have helped on the coming day. If I can 
win a child from a Dissenting school to a Church 
school, I snatch a brand from the burning. The 
Church, Mr. Edgcumbe, is Christ’s chosen 'means of 
saving the world ; and as a servant of the Church I 
spare no means to win people to the Church.” 

“ But, Mr. Cross ” 

“Forgive me, I cannot stay longer; there is so 
much to do ; ” and the young man rushed on to his 
work, the light of a fanatic shining from his eyes. 

Stephen walked through Battersea Park, and on to 
Bridge Koad, and was crossing the wooden bridge 
which in those days spanned the Thames, when some 
one touched his shoulder. 

“ Am I on the way to Chelsea ? ” said a voice in 
his ear, and he turned and saw a young man with 
black hair and beard standing beside him. 

“ Yes,” replied Stephen. 

“Thank you,” he replied; “and now let me ask 
you, have you entered by the new and living Way, 
the Way that leads to heaven ? ” 

Before Stephen could reply, the man had passed 
on, and, seeing two men carrying a heavy piece of 
wood, went up to one of them, and asked to be 
allowed to carry his burden. The man, with a 
laugh, assented. Then the strange character said in 
a loud voice, — 

“ ' Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are heavy 
laden, and I will give you rest.’ Christ is the great 


212 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


burden-bearer. He bore our sins in His own body 
on the tree.” 

And so he kept on until he reached the end of the 
bridge, while the people who passed by laughed good- 
humoredly. 

He ’s a strange character, Mr. Edgcumbe,” said a 
voice close to him ; and, on turning, Stephen saw 
Happy Elijah, who had spoken in Battersea Park, 
and with whom he had become acquainted. 

“ Is he in his right mind ? ” asked Stephen. 

“ I don’ know. He thinks he ’s doin’ the work of 
the Lord. Bless the Lord ! He do make feeble in- 
sterments powerful, He do.” 

Stephen talked a few minutes with the old man, 
and the talk did him good. It made him feel the 
beauty of genuine goodness and childlike faith ; and 
when we met that night, I felt that his conversation 
with Happy Elijah had strengthened his grasp on the 
faith of his childhood. 

The next day was Sunday, and John Polden came. 
He was smiling and suave as before, and was evidently 
desirous of being friendly. And yet I liked him no 
better at this our second meeting. He never looked 
either of us straight in the face, and the perpetual 
smile on his face was irritating. Stephen told him 
of his talk with the curate, in which Polden professed 
great interest. 

“ Edgcumbe,” he said, it is marvellous to me how 
people can be so narrow. I ’m a very religious fellow 
myself ; but my point is always to distinguish be- 
tween religion and sects. The Anglican Church is a 
sect, and so is the Baptist, and so is the Presbyterian. 
Well, I respect them all. There are earnest men in 
them all. There are earnest, honest atheists, and ag- 
nostics, and theosophists. They have n’t got all the 
truth, any of them, you know ; in fact, we are all 
‘ infants crying in the night, and with no language 


THE COMING NIGHT. 


213 


but a cry’ ; but I like to give every one the credit 
for being honest.” 

Stephen looked at Polden and nodded his head 
assentingly, as though a thought had been expressed 
with which he desired to agree. And yet, although 
Polden uttered his apparently charitable platitude as 
if he were a leader of religious liberty, and notwith- 
standing the fact that I agreed with what he said, I 
respected the opinions of the fanatical curate a thou- 
sand times more. At any rate, Cross was in earnest, 
and, according to his convictions, he was real. 

“ You know,” went on Polden, “ I believe there ’s 
far more good in the world than we think. There ’s 
good at the bottom of all the evil that we mourn 
over, and there ’s a lot of real downright virtue in 
these so-called bad people. Hope for the best, I say, 
Edgcumbe. Let us think of the good, my friend. 
Let ’s think of the earnestness of Mr. Cross, and not 
trouble so much about his bigotry ; let ’s remember 
the transparency and sunshine of old Elijah’s life, 
and forget the foolishness of his views. Be glad in 
the world, — that ’s my motto ; the world ’s in good 
hands, eh. Dr. Koberts ? ” 

These were the beliefs I wanted Stephen to acpept,' 
but they lost all beauty to me as Polden spoke them. 
I could not help feeling they were cant phrases, and I 
was sure that he had an ulterior purpose in speaking 
them. And yet I could not understand what it could 
be. What could he gain by speaking so ? Nothing. 
And so, accusing myself of unfairness, I tried to ex- 
press my agreement with him. But I could not. 
Although I commenced my reply by saying, “Yes,” I 
concluded by a tirade against fair-weather optimists. 

John Polden did not take offence at my remarks, 
however ; he smilingly admitted that there was a great 
deal in what I had said, and then turned to Stephen 
and asked him if he had seen anything of the man 


214 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


or woman we had found quarrelling on our way home 
from Clapham Commom 

“ No,” replied Stephen, ‘‘ I have not, and I know 
that I’ve been. mean in not inquiring at the house. 
I cannot help feeling that the woman deserves sym- 
pathy and help ; but it is an awkward thing to inter- 
fere between man and wife.” 

“ For my own part,” said Polden, “ I would gladly 
help such a woman as she seemed to be, if necessity 
occurred. But, as you say, such a proceeding would 
be awkward, especially for young fellows like our- 
selves. But then, I ’m not the man, neither are you, 
Edgcumbe, to allow convention to stand in the way 
when humanity demands our aid.” 

When Polden left the house, I opened the windows 
and heaved a deep sigh, as though I would throw off 
a depressing influence which I had felt when he was 
in the room. Stephen, however, said he had enjoyed 
his company, and added that such a sunny religion 
as that professed by Polden was worth the liaving ; 
after which he relapsed into moody silence. Some- 
how, I felt that my friend had been fighting with 
himself. 

And now it is my duty to record that which it 
pains me beyond words to write, and yet which must 
be told if I relate my friend’s history faithfully. 


MORALITY OF THE DESERVING POORr 215 


CHAPTER X. 


THE MOKALITY OF THE “ DESERVING POOR (?) ” 

Do good and lend, despairing of no man. 

The New Testament. 

URIXG- the next few weeks, Stephen saw Pol- 



LJ den frequently, and, as far as I could see, 
learned to trust him. I said nothing to him, how- 
ever ; it was not for me to choose his friends, much 
as I might dislike this man. Besides, I knew nothing 
against him. My dislike was the result of instinct 
rather than reason, or, as Stephen would have termed 
it, prejudice. In addition to this, my friend ap- 
peared so much more cheerful ; so that I began to 
hope he had either received favorable news from his 
wife, or that time was taking away the poignancy of 
his grief. He seemed to pay more attention to his 
profession, too, and told me that he had made a fair 
start with the novel he intended to write. I could 
not help seeing, however, that he showed less sym- 
pathy with suffering, less horror of filth, than he had 
done. One night I remember, in particular, we 
passed by a public-house, outside which two men, 
surrounded by a gaping crowd, were fighting ; but 
he showed no desire to interfere. 

“ It ’s no use bothering,” he said, with a shrug of 
his shoulders ; “ let them fight out their quarrel ; we 
shall get nothing for our'interference.” 

Neither did he show any interest when I spoke 
of interfering. 


216 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


As the summer advanced,! saw rather less of him, 
owing to the fact, I was vain enough to believe, that 
I was increasing my chief’s practice, and was often 
called away to patients who lived in the neighbor- 
hood of Clapham Common and Wandsworth Common. 
Anyhow, my time became more and more occupied, 
and, as a consequence, those parts of the day which 
we had been in the habit of spending together were 
spent apart. 

One day I had been visiting a patient in the 
neighborhood of Mrs. Price’s house, and was about to 
return to Battersea, when 1 saw John Polden coming 
down the road towards me, in apparently earnest 
conversation with another young man. I delayed 
getting into the conveyance until they came nearer, 
when I saw that Polden, when he had recog- 
nized me, immediately caught hold of his companion’s 
arm and hurried up a side street. I do not know 
that this would have surprised me, — for I had a 
shrewd suspicion that Polden knew I had little 
respect for him, — had not I caught sight of the other 
man’s face, and felt sure I recognized it. 

“If that’s not Ealph Hussey, it’s his double,” I 
said to myself ; and, jumping into the carriage, I told 
the gioom to drive rapidly after them. I was not 
fated to get very near, however, for they were enter- 
ing a house as I came up ; but I was confirmed in my 
suspicion. There could be no doubt that John Pol- 
den’s companion was Ealph Hussey, whom Stephen 
had saved from drowning years before, and who was 
acknowledged to have been in love with Stephen’s 
wife. I saw, too, that they tried to keep their faces 
from me ; and although I shouted out “ Good-day,” 
neither took any notice of my salute. 

As may be imagined, this incident set me think- 
ing. Of course there might be nothing remarkable 
in their being together. They might have been 


MORALITY OF THE ^'DESERVING POORT 217 


schoolfellows, college chums, or a hundred things. 
Hussey was a man of independent means, and could 
spend his time where he would ; while Polden had 
no profession, and would be. glad of a companion of 
the Hussey ilk. Why, then, should they not be 
together ? So I said to myself, but I could not help 
being uncomfortable. Why were they anxious to 
avoid me, and why did Hussey seek to hide his face ? 
Besides, I had heard Stephen mention Ealph Hus- 
sey’s name in Polden’s presence ; but he had taken 
no notice of it, — had acted, indeed, as though he 
knew no such person. 

But there, I, Daniel Eoberts, had always been an 
over-cautious, suspicious sort of fellow, and I liked 
neither Polden nor Hussey. I determined to be 
home in good time that evening, however, so as to 
have a chat with Stephen, and to tell him what I had 
seen. Perhaps my hope was that he would in the 
future see less of Polden, when he knew of that 
gentleman’s friendship with Hussey. 

“ Stephen, old man,” I said, when we met at 
dinner, “ is Polden friendly with Ealph Hussey, do 
you know ? ” 

“ Hot as far as I am aware,” was his reply. 

“ Have they ever been friendly, do you think ?” 

“ I think not. I once mentioned Hussey’s name 
casually, in the course of conversation with Polden, 
but he took no notice. Why do you ask ? ” 

“ Because I saw them together to-day. They were 
evidently very friendly, for they walked arm-in- 
arm.” 

He was silent for a minute, then he said slowly : 

“ Well, what of that ? ” 

I don’t know,” I replied. “ I ’m afraid I don’t 
like Polden, and I ’m sure Hussey does not like you. 
Your own judgment must tell you, better than I can, 
how you should regard Hussey; while as for Polden; 


218 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


— well, I confess T did n’t feel comfortable when I 
saw them together.” 

“ Dan, old man,” he cried, “ I ’m trying to 
trust in people ; don’t you seek to undermine that 
trust.” 

“ Yes, Steve ; but we must use judgment. I 
would n’t trust a mad dog or an adder.” 

“ Steady, old man ; that ’s scarcely like you.” 

“ How would you explain their apparent friend- 
ship ? ” I asked. 

“I don’t try to explain,” he said. “What right 
have I to ” 

He stopped short in the middle of the conversa- 
tion, and seemed to be thinking deeply. 

“ Steve, old fellow,” I said, “ have you heard any- 
thing about your wife lately, and — do you love her 
still ? ” 

“ I ’ve heard nothing, Dan, not a word, a syllable, 
since the Colonel was here, you know. I ’ve written 
again and again ; but I ’ve had no reply, and my 
letters have not been returned. I ’ve sent all the 
money I ’ve been able, and I know by my pass-book 
that my cheques have been presented. Do I love 
my wife, Dan ? — how can you ask i ” 

“ Perhaps it was brutal of me to ask,” I replied ; 
“ but it ’s a good while now since you separated, and 
I was wondering whether ” 

“ Dan, my friend, I may speak to you, I know, — 
speak freely. I have wanted to for a long while, but 
it has been very hard to break the ice. I love her 
as much as ever, old fellow, — love her all I ’m 
capable of loving. I cannot help remembering the 
glad, happy days we spent together ; besides, I fell 
in love with her when I was a boy, — you remember, 
Dan ; you know, too, how beautiful she was. I — 
I am trying to think the best I can about her. I 
remember that she was under tlie Colonel’s influence 


MORALITY OF THE ‘^DESERVING POOR.' 


219 


long before she saw me, and I believe she is very 
fond of her father. Well, I try to believe that she 
is more to be pitied than blamed. She has been 
taught to worship money, and no doubt she has been 
influenced by her father to keep away from me ; but, 
Dan, my ideal is shattered, my belief in her love for 
me has gone. I used to fancy her noble and true, 
and that ’s gone too.” 

. I was silent. 

' “ Mind you, Dan,” he went on, " I still believe in 
her purity, and in a way I believe she is faithful to 
her marriage vow ; but the old Isabella is gone, — 
that is, the Isabella I dreamed about, the Isabella 
of my fond imaginings, — and some one else by the 
same name has taken her place.” 

“ And do you hope ever to be reunited ? ” I 
said. 

“ Hope is a strong word. I long for it ; for even 
now, if she were to come to me as she did on our 
wedding-day, and tell me she was faulty, but that 
she loved me, I think I should forget the past, — 
I love her so. But I am afraid I don’t hope, although 
at times I fancy I even do that ; and then I have 
energy, then I can work. -Again, at times, the bar- 
riers seem impregnable, and difficulties laugh at 
me ” 

“ Yes ? ” I said, as he hesitated. 

“ When I see things that way, I am paralyzed ; I 
go about with a weight on my heart. Still, I hold 
fast.” 

“ Hold fast to what, Steve ? ” 

To the thought that she 's still mine. Oh, Dan, 
if you ever loved as I love her, you would realize 
what a power it has on life. She may n’t love me in 
the way I imagined ; but she ’s my wife still, and I 
hold fast to the longing that she ’ll see the truth about 
things, and come back to me. Then the, past year or 


220 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


SO will be only a hideous nightmare, a ghastly time 
to be forgotten.” 

“But if she should never come back? Suppose 
she remains unfaithful ? ” 

A strange look came into his eyes, and I was sorry 
I made the suggestion. Nothing further was said 
just then, however, for a servant came in with a note 
for him. 

He took it, and read it quickly. 

“ You remember that man and woman who were 
quarrelling when we came back from Mrs. Price’s 
some time ago, Dan ? ” he said, when he had 
finished. 

“ Very well,” I replied. 

“ They are called Baker,” he said. “ The man, John 
Baker, is a bricklayer’s laborer; the woman, Ellen, 
his wife, was a respectable servant. It turns out, as 
I suspected that night, the woman is a very decent 
woman, and the man is a drunken brute, often leav- 
ing her for days without food or money.” 

“ How have you discovered this ? ” I asked. 

“ Polden and I have investigated the case,” he said. 
“ Polden was very much interested, and asked my 
advice, as a lawyer, whether they could not in some 
way be separated, and the woman and her two chil- 
dren helped.” 

“ Have you visited the house ? ” I asked. 

“ Yes ; two or three times.” 

“Alone?” 

“ No ; Polden has always gone with me.” 

“ It is quite interesting to see Polden and you 
acting as good Samaritans,” I said. 

“ I ’m afraid there ’s not much of the good Samar- 
itan in my part of the affair,” he said. “ I am looking 
upon the whole thing as an experiment ; I am won- 
dering whether help is really appreciated by this class 
of people.” 


MORALITY OF THE DESERVING POOR." 221 

I remembered all the old harrowing doubts which 
had been troubling him, and wondered as to the 
future, 

“ And Polden ? ” I asked. 

‘"Polden thinks the woman deserving of every 
help,” he replied. “You are, T think, mistaken in 
him; he ’s such a kind fellow, and has great faith in 
these people. I was for letting the matter drop, for 
there must be hundreds of similar cases in Batter- 
sea; but he says no, let’s help the poor thing, if 
we can.” 

“ Then why not mention the case to some minis- 
ter ? ” I said. 

“ Why should I ? ” he asked. “ The world is bad 
enough; surely it’s no harm to try and do a little 
good myself, without packing it on others’ shoulders.” 

I felt rebuked, and yet I was not satisfied. 

“Just so,” I said; “and this letter you received a 
few minutes ago ? ” 

“ Is from her,” he replied. “ She asks my advice. 
She says her husband has left her, and she knows not 
what to do.” 

“ Put the affair in the hands of the police and the 
parish relieving officer,” I said. 

“It seems a bit hard, doesn’t it?” he replied. 
“ Say, Dan, won’t you walk over with me, and then 
you might be better able to give an opinion.” 

“ Yes,” I said, “ I will.” I had no sooner put on 
my hat, however, than I received a message telling 
me that my services were needed in another direction, 
and so Stephen went away alone. 

When I returned from the patient whom I had 
been hurriedly called to visit, I found Stephen await- 
ing me. 

“ Well, you went to see those people ? ” I said. 

“ Yes,” he replied ; “ they are in a bad way. I am 
not sure whether the woman deserves help, in spite 


222 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


of Polden’s high opinion ; still, you can’t see people 
starving.” 

“ What have you done ? ” 

“Very little ; I Ve just given the poor thing enough 
to buy bread for a day or so, but nothing permanent 
Bad or good, she ought to have something done for 
her.” 

“ Has Polden been to see you lately ? ” 

“ No ; I have n’t seen liim for several days.” 

Nothing more was said about the question at that 
time ; indeed, poor deserted wives and starving chil- 
dren are too common in Battersea to call forth much 
remark. Of course, individual help to such people 
is necessary, and much suffering is averted thereby ; 
at the same time, some radical change in the social 
circumstances of the people must take place before 
the evil is successfully grappled with. 

One evening, about a week later, during wliich 
time I had seen comparatively little of him, I re- 
turned from my rounds to find him in a state of great 
excitement. 

What ’s the matter, Steve ? ” I asked. 

“Matter!” he said. “I’ve been duped, befooled, 
that ’s all.” 

“That’s nothing new with people nowadays,” I 
said. “ But what has happened ? ” 

He lay back in his chair, and laughed in a bitter, 
sneering way. “ You remember that woman whom I 
thought so respectable ? ” 

“ Perfectly.” 

“Well, she sent to me for help again to-day.” 

“ Of course,” I said ; “ that is only common. You 
did n’t go, did you ? ” 

“ Yes, I went.” 

“ You were very foolish.” 

“Foolish! Why, she’s as bad — ay, worse than 
the strumpets who walk the streets.” 


MORALITY OF THE DESERVING POORT 223 


I was silent. 

“ This is the purity of the working-classes ! ” he 
sneered. “ Bah ! But then I ought to have expected 
it. Why, the whole place is a cesspool. Everywhere, 
everywhere it ’s the same.” 

“ Explain, Stephen, old man. What ’s the 
matter?” 

“ Nay, I ’ll not explain. The whole thing makes 
me sick, it is so loathsome. My God ! the whole 
tribe of them must have been born in the bottomless 
pit. But there, I ’ll not bother ; after all, I could n’t 
have expected anything else. As soon as my eyes 
were opened, and I saw what a fool I had been, I 
came away with a feeling of loathing in my heart, 
worse than if I had been to a cancer hospital, or had 
come from a den where smallpox or some other pesti- 
lence prevailed. And I had hopes that I was doing 
good, too ! ” and again he laughed bitterly. 

“ Have you seen Polden lately ? ” I asked presently. 

No, not for some days. It ’s just as well, perhaps. 
Don’t mention this business to me again, Dan ; be- 
sides, I want to do a little work to-night. I ’ve got 
an idea that I ’ve found a publisher for the novel I ’m 
writing.” 

“ You have n’t told me the subject of your novel 
yet, Steve,” I said. 

“ Have n’t I ? Well, I was telling the outline of 
the story to a literary fellow to-day, and he told me 
it would be bound to make a hit, provided I had 
pluck.” 

“Pluck?” 

“ Yes, pluck enough to face Mrs. Grundy and tell 
the truth.” 

“ Truth about what ? ” 

“ Illusions.” 

“ Is that the subject of your book ?” 


224 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“ Ay, and it ’s the title, too.” 

“ Well, what are you saying about it 

“ I hardly know yet. I ’m not calm and unfeeling 
enough to be a realist, I ’m not logical enough to be 
a philosopher, and I ’m afraid I’m not plucky enough 
to tell the truth.” 

“ About what ? ” 

“Well, say such a thing as responsibility. You 
see, I get wild at — at such affairs as that I’ve 
been speaking about ; but, after all, why should I ? 
Human nature is just as it’s made, isn’t it? and if 
it ’s bad, well, whose fault is it ? Were n’t those old 
fellows right when they said that no man was re- 
sponsible for his acts ? What ’s the use of troubling ? 
What’s the use of fighting wrong ? Let nature have 
its fling, for fighting ends in defeat.” 

“You don’t believe that, Steve?” 

“ Don’t I ? Well, I suppose I don’t ; and yet, are n’t 
all our old ideas about right and wrong, virtue and 
vice, purity and impurity, amongst the illusions of 
life?” 

“ Steve, old man,” I said, “ I ’m going to have a 
holiday, the first for a long time. I ’m going to Wales, 
and I want to tramp through the mountain district. 
You want a holiday, too. Can’t you manage to come 
with me? We’ll have no luggage, save what we can 
carry in a couple of knapsacks, and we ’ll have a right 
jolly time, free from work and worry. We’ll forget 
smallpox, cancers, and abnormalities, whether physi- 
cal or moral, and we ’ll live among the free air of the 
mountains. What do you say ? ” 

“When, Dan?” 

“ In a week from to-day ! ” 

His eyes flashed like those of Stephen in the old 
days. 

“ I ’m your man, Dan ! ” he cried ; and, rising to his 


MORALITY OF THE DESERVING POORT 225 


feet he seemed to shuffle off a heavy burden. “Just 
a right free time in the fresh air,” he continued; “and 
when I come back, perhaps I shall see that I am suf- 
fering from ‘ illusions,’ eh, old man ? ” 

I almost dread writing of the time “ when he came 
back.” 


15 


226 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


CHAPTEK XL 


A wife’s faithfulness. 


And yet, within a month — 

Let me not think on ’t — Frailty, thy name is woman ! 

Hamlet. 


E spent a happy fortnight in Wales. True, it 



rained now and then, and a “ mist was on the 


mountains ” very often ; but we had some bright days, 
and many exhilarating walks. I saw health coming 
back to Stephen’s cheek, and the bright look of hope 
to his eyes. Sometimes he volunteered a remark 
about his wife, and I knew that he was looking 
forward to a time when the dark cloud should roll 


away. 


“ If I could only persuade her to get away from 
the old Colonel’s influence, and entice her to come 
here among these mountains ! ” he would say. 

“Well, you have the right to demand it,” my reply 
would be. 

“ Yes ; but to demand would be to destroy all the 
gladness, all the charm. Nay, if she comes, she 
must come willingly.” 

He wrote to her, but no reply came. Still, he bore 
up cheerfully, and a better travelling companion I 
could not desire. When the fortnight came to an 
end, we were both bronzed, and in good spirits, — ten 
pounds heavier, he assured me, for our rest and 
recreation. 


A WIFE^S FAITBFU'LNFSS. 


227 


“Well, I shall have need of ray renewed strength,” 
I said, “ for there will be no end of work to do. Will 
you be busy, too ? ” 

“Fairly,” he replied. “You see, I am not quite 
'briefless;’ besides, I write for one or two news- 
papers.” 

“ Then there is your novel,” I suggested ; “ a suc- 
cessful novel is worth a few hundreds of pounds.” 

“ Yes,” he answered ; “ I know of a fellow who 
made six hundred pounds by his first novel. I ’m 
hoping to do something like that. Perhaps Isabella 
might come back to me then.” 

“Very likely,” was my response; and yet I felt 
that my friend was living in a fool’s paradise when 
he made plans which depended on his wife’s love. 

“ My idea of the book has changed since we were 
talking about it in Battersea,” he said, on the last da}r 
of our holiday. 

“Yes, how?” 

“Well, I think the mountain air has swept away 
the cobwebs from my brain ; anyhow, my reading of 
life is different from what it was. Instead of show- 
ing that the illusions of life are false, it has come to 
me that the so-called illusions of childhood may be 
true to the truest life. Don’t you see ? ” 

I nodded. 

“It will mean an amount of constructive work 
after the destructive is over, you know ; and thus 
the book, as a whole, will be positive instead of 
negative.” 

Arriving at Euston station, we hired a cab and 
drove direct to Battersea, and, after having washed, 
sat down to dinner. A pile of letters lay before each 
of us, but I insisted that not one should be looked at 
until we had finished our dinner. I was glad after- 
wards that I did so ; it meant half an hour more of 
happiness. 


228 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


Dinner over, we both began reading our corre- 
spondence, and I had nearly finished mine when I 
heard Stephen gasp as if he were choking. 

“ What is the matter ? ” I cried. 

He had turned as pale as a corpse ; his eyes burned 
with an unusual light ; his hands, which clutched a 
letter, trembled violently. 

“No^no, Dan,” he cried; “it can’t be that; no, 
no 1 ” 

“ Can’t be what ? ” I asked. 

“Look!” he said, in a hoarse voice. “Head for 
yourself.” 

I took the letter from his unresisting fingers, and 
read, feeling my blood recede from my face as I did 
so. At first I was staggered, I could not comprehend 
the issues of the situation ; but by and by they be- 
came clear to me. All the while Stephen stood by 
my side as still and as pale as a dead man. 

“ You see — you understand,” he said presently. 

“ Yes, I see ; I think I understand,” I replied. 

“ But, Dan, the whole affair is as false as lies, as 
false as hell 1 ” he gasped. 

“I’m sure it is,” was my answer. 

“ But how can they — why, nothing can be proved.” 

“You should know best, you are a barrister,” I 
replied ; “ but I have been told that almost anything 
can be proved in a court of law, provided conscience 
is out of the question, and a long purse is behind 
everything.” 

“ Bead the letter — every word ! ” he gasped. “ 1 
can’t believe it ; I can’t realize it ! ” 

I read it aloud. I will not quote it here. It is 
not necessary to this history that I should, and cer- 
tainly I have no desire to write what was basely 
conceived, and more basely executed. Indeed, the 
whole matter shall be dealt with lightly ; there is no 
gain in sullying these pages with that which is un- 


A WIFE^S FAITHFULNESS. 


229 


clean. Suffice to say, then, that the letter which had 
blanched my friend’s face and almost overcome him, 
contained information that means were being taken 
to destroy his marriage bonds, because of his alleged 
unfaithfulness. It coupled his name with the woman 
named Baker, whom we had rescued from a drunken 
husband and who had so deceived Stephen, and 
informed him that proceedings would be taken imme- 
diately. 

“ It ’s plain, unmistakable,” he said, when I had 
finished. 

"Yes,” I said. 

“ Can you explain it, Dan ? Do, if you can ; I 
can’t think. I Ve received a blow, and it has stag- 
gered me. My head is swimming, too.” 

I caught him by the hand, and led him to his arm- 
chair, and then sat down by his side. He remained 
a few minutes with his head buried in his hands, then 
he started up and walked to and fro about the room. 

" Sit down again, Steve,” I said, “ and let us both 
be as calm as we can.” 

" I can’t sit down now,” he cried ; " I must be on 
the move. Perhaps I shall be able to think quietly 
presently, but not yet.” 

" Let us try and face the question, then ; let us try 
and find out who originated the whole thing.” 

“ Presently, Dan,” he said, " but not now ; I can’t 
think. I must go out; I want more air — more 
room ! ” 

He put on his hat and left the house, I following 
him. He did not notice me. With clenched hands^ 
and pale, immovable features, he moved like one in a 
dream. Hour after hour he walked, I keeping near 
to him, yet not daring to speak to him, knowing that 
such an interruption would not help him. Some- 
times I could hear him muttering; while once or 
twice I saw his hand uplifted, as though he would 


230 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


strike an imaginary enemy. By and by I determined 
to speak; I felt sure he could not fear the strain 
much longer, especially when I heard him cry out as 
if in agony. 

“ Stephen, old friend,” I said, taking him by the 
arm, “ let us go home.” 

“ Dan,” he cried, as though I had been walking by 
his side all the time, “ she ’s gone from me, lost to me. 
She ’s my wife no longer. There ’s no hope, not one 
bit anywhere. Everything is black — black.” 

“We don’t know everything yet, Steve.” 

“ I know she must have consented to this ; I knoy 
she ’s gone from me ; and I know, worse than all, that 
she ’s false as lies itself. She has given her approval, 
— nay, instigated this vile scheme, which was born 
in darkness. She who was my wife, Dan ; she whom 
I have loved like my life, — and I Ve never been 
unfaithful to her, even in thought, Dan.” 

“Well, let’s get back, old fellow ; we can talk over 
the whole affair together. Perhaps we can probe the 
thing to the bottom, and save disgrace.” 

“ Disgrace ! I don’t care a snap of the finger for 
disgrace. What I care for is the fact that she who 
has laid her head on my breast, and called me her 
husband, is — is — is capable of — Oh, Dan, I can’t 
bear it ! The other was bad enough, but she left me 
room for hope then ; but now — Oh, my God ! My 
God!” 

“ Come, Steve, master yourself, old man. Here we 
are at home ; let us go in and sit down quietly.” 

He stopped in the road, as though struggling with 
himself. By and by he heaved a deep sigh, then he 
said quietly, — 

“ All right, Dan ; I think I can go in now. I ’ve 
been to the bottom of the affair, I think, and know 
what I ’m saying.” 

A minute later we were sitting together, Stephen 


A WIFF^S .FAITHFULNESS. 


231 


outwardly as calm as though nothing had happened, 
and yet the dark circles around his eyes, and his 
drawn, haggard face, revealed how terrible were the 
experiences through which he was going. 

“ I can see through all this, my friend,” I said ; “ I 
can probe this shameful plot to the bottom.” 

“ Can you, Dan ? What have you to say about it, 
then ? ” 

“ That visit of the Coloners some months ago was 
the beginning of it. When he found that you would 
not accept money not lawfully earned, and preferred 
poverty to dishonesty, he went back, and a scheme 
was concocted whereby you might be got rid of.” 

“ Who concocted it ? ” 

“Well, Hussey and the Colonel.” 

“ And — and the other.” 

“ Anyhow, I believe that was the beginning of it.” 

“ Well, what then ? ” 

“ Then I believe they began to have your actions 
watched, with no possible results in their favor. 
They knew that somehow they must have a plausible 
case to take into a court of law. Well, Hussey knew 
Polden, and Polden is one of those gentlemanly 
loafers who is always ready to do dirty work. You 
can see the rest plainly enough. I wondered at 
Hussey and Polden being together, and both desir- 
ous of shunning me ; now I see the meaning of it.” 

He nodded his head in a cold way, as though he 
had lost all feeling, and had become a mere thinking 
machine. 

“ But that affair in the street after coming home 
from Mrs. Price’s house — Polden could not have 
counted on that ? ” 

“ No ; it was simply an accident in his favor. 
Afterwards both man and woman were bought. The 
rest is plain.” 

“ I expect you are right,” he said. “ And still the 


232 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


motive does not seem sufficient. Old Tempest is 
proud, and the Divorce Court has n’t a pleasant 
sound.” ' 

“ You know what his pride is worth where money 
is concerned; as for conscience, he has none. Then 
Hussey hates you and loves your wife ; he has always 
been in love with her. He has come into some more 
money, too. I read about it the other day. Some 
old aunt or other died. The Colonel wants money.” 

“ And she — she aids and abets.” 

“An3ffiow, she must consent.” 

He sat gloomy and silent for some minutes, never 
moving; then he said, “Ilford was right, after all. 
His creed was true — true as death is true.” 

“ What creed ? ” 

“ Every man can be bought, if the price you offer 
is big enough ; and a woman is more easily bought 
than a man.” 

“ Not all, Steve ! ” 

A sneer curled his lips, but he did not reply. 

“ I suppose,” he said at length, “ that that Baker 
woman and her husband have learnt their lessons. 
Bah ! I see the reason for her behavior now.” 

“No doubt,” I replied, “both will be ready to 
swear to anything ; and yet I believe their case" will 
not hold water. It is full of holes.” 

“Of course it is,” was his reply ; “ but that does not 
matter.” 

“ Not matter ; how ? ” 

“ How can it ? ” 

“But surely you’ll fight it to the end. You’ll 
not let your name be dragged in the mire by such 
people.” 

“ My name, Dan ! what do I care about my name ? 
The truth is, she wishes our relations to cease, she 
wishes to be free, and she does not scruple to use 
such means. I see her as — as she is, now. Well, 


A IVIFE^S FAITHFULNESS. 


233 


she shall be free ; I will not move one finger — ay, 
and she knew I would not move a finger — to de- 
stroy their plans when she made them or consented 
to them. She knew that all I cared for was her love 
— her desire to be my wife ; and when she deter- 
mined to use the only means whereby our wedding 
vows could be broken, she was sure that I would not 
try and hinder her plans from being carried out.” 

“Then you see the possible issue of the whole 
matter. You see that if you allow this evil scheme 
to triumph, by being criminally silent, you will allow 
her to add crime to crime.” 

“ I see,” he said, in a stony way. “ But what is 
crime, what is sin ? If it exists at all, it exists in 
desire, in the will. Well, let her go to the end. 
When their plans are carried out, she will be free to 
go through the mockery of another wedding cere- 
mony. She will be married — married, eh ? — that 
is, she will have this Hussey’s name, and his money, 
and she who was my wife will be an adulteress ! Oh, 
the beautiful purity of women ! Pure ! Nay, there ’s 
not a pure woman under heaven I” 

“ You don’t mean that, Steve.” 

He laughed a bitter, joyless, cynical laugh. 

“ I thought my time of disillusionment had come 
when Uncle Luke’s smash came,” he said ; “ but it 
had n’t. It has come now, though. The vile thing 
is laid bare enough now. And I was such a fool as 
to believe, to trust in a woman’s promise, a woman’s 
chastity.” 

“ But, Steve,” I said, “ you will surely do some- 
thing.” 

“ Nothing, Dan, nothing. Why should I ? What 
should I gain ? Let hell triumph, if it will ; I ’ve no 
interest in the matter now. I ’m but a piece on the 
chess-board which she can move so as to win her 
game. Life ’s a grand thing, Dan, a grand thing ! It 


234 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


offers such inducements to truth and honesty, does n’t 
it ? Why, if I ’d been wise enough to accept a thou- 
sand a year from Uncle Luke — money to which he 
has no right — that is, if I ’d been willing to sell my 
conscience and be a rogue, I should have retained my 
wife’s smiles, and should have been supremely happy. 
So happy ! Oh, there are such incentives to virtue, 
are there not ? ” 

After that, silence reigned for some time. Stephen 
sat like a statue, with his eyes fixed on the fireplace ; 
but he saw nothing, his mind was far away, and I 
knew his thoughts were bitter as wormwood. For 
some time I fancy he was unconscious of my pres- 
ence ; he was down at Edgcumbe Hall again, or 
perhaps he was away at Bloomfields, seeing Isabella 
Tempest for the first time. As I watched him sitting 
there so still, his face so drawn with agony, his eyes 
so glistening and stony, I could not help thinking of 
him as I saw him first. What a handsome lad he 
was, so bright, so clever, so hopeful ! What dreams 
he had, too ; what castles he built ! Then I thought 
of the influence that such a man as his uncle must 
have had on him, and the impressions that his tutor 
at Manchester must have made on his character. 
His healthy nature would have none of their cyni- 
cism and pessimism in the days of his hope and 
gladness. And yet all they said must have formed 
a deposit in his life ; and now in the day of his dark- 
ness the seed they sowed was beginning to bear fruit. 
He was beginning to believe as they had taught him 
to believe ; the so-called realistic literature which he 
had devoured was so much' poison in his mind. I 
felt this to be true, and yet I was powerless to do 
anything for him; and a great pain came into my 
heart as I thought of the coming days. 

I turned to the letter which conveyed the evil 
tidings, and read it through again. It was formal 


A WZFE^S FAITHFULNESS. 


2B5 


and cold, as all legal letters are; but its meaning 
was plain, all too plain. His wife, so the letter said, 
had given instructions for the letter to be sent, and 
no doubt everything was done to make a hideous lie 
look like truth. 

‘‘ Steve,” I said at length, “ this letter was dated 
three days ago.” 

“ Was it ? ” 

“Yes; and it asks for the address of your legal 
advisers.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ What will you say to them ? ” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ But you must answer the letter.” 

“ Must I ? Very well ; I shall simply acknowledge 
their communication, and tell them that no defence 
will be offered.” 

“Such a communication will at once make the 
public think you confess the truth of their accusa- 
tion.” 

“ Well, that does n’t matter.” 

“ But, Stephen ” 

“ I shall offer no defence ; I shall not appear at 
the court. Let them have it their own way ; I have 
no interest in the matter.” 

“ But you have every interest ; your whole fu- 
ture ” 

“ The future is nothing to me. She — she uses 
this means, vile as it is, to get rid of me ; that is 
enough, — I care nothing for anything else.” 

His face never moved, and his eyes remained fixed 
on the fireplace ; he seemed a mere automaton ; he 
looked as though the hand of death were on him. 

I saw no use talking further with him, and on 
looking at my watch I found that it was past mid- 
night. 

“ Come, Steve, let us go to bed,” I said. 


236 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


" Good-niglit, Dan.” 

“But you will go to bed ? ” 

“ N’o ; I shall not go to bed to-night.” 

“ Let me stay up with you.” 

“No ; I would rather be alone. Please leave me.” 
I saw I had better do as he said, and so I left him 
sitting as still as a statue and looking into vacancy. 

“ God bless you, Steve ! ” I said. 

“ God ? ” he said ; and I knew by the tone of his 
voice that the Name we use in prayer was only a 
Great Question to him. 


A LOOK AT HELL. 


237 


CHAPTER XIL 


A LOOK AT HELL. 


Which way I fly is Hell ; myself am Hell ; 
And in the lowest deep a lower deep 
Still threatening to devour me opens wide. 


All good to me is lost. 


Milton. 



^HE next day I called at the house to which we 


had taken the drunken man Baker and his 


wife some months before, in order to ascertain, as far 
as they were concerned, the true position of affairs. 
I found the door locked and the rooms empty. On 
inquiring of the neighbors, I found that the family 
had left a week before. The man, they asserted, had 
gone no one knew whither, while the woman and 
children they fancied had come into some money, for 
they had “ moved in a grand way like.” Where she 
had gone, however, no one knew. She had paid 
all her debts, and had been very reserved as to her 
future movements. 

“She was horful huppish,” one woman informed 
me, “ and would n't hev a drink nor nothink. She 
sed as 'ow she wasn't a-goin' to throw away 'er 
chances by boozin'. I told 'er,” the woman continued 
warmly, “ as 'ow she was n’t a hactin' like a laidy ; 
and I ses to her, I ses, there 's better nor you as is n't 
too proud to hev a drink, I ses. But she jist slams 
the door in my faice, while I hup and told wot she 
was.” 


238 


ALL MEN ARE LLARS. 


‘‘ And what did you tell her ? ” 

“I told her as ’ow she weren’t better nor the rest 
on us,” was the reply. Whereupon she repeated 
some gossip which I will not record here. 

On going back to my apartments, I found that 
Stephen was just making a pretence of having break- 
fast. He had gone to his bedroom when daylight 
came, and had lain on the bed without taking off 
his clothes. He had not slept, he told me ; and he 
spoke in a dazed, abstracted sort of way. 

“ I have just been to the woman Baker’s house,” I 
said. 

“ Yes,” was his reply. '' Well, what of your visit ? ” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ Nothing ! Have you seen her ? ” 

No ; she has gone away, no one knows where.” 

“Just so,” he said, after musing a few seconds. 
“ Everything is cut and dried.” 

“ Yes ; I fancy that is true,” I replied. And then 
I repeated what I had heard about the woman. 

“ I dare say all you say is true,” he replied ; “ doubt- 
less, she ’s worse than what you have heard about 
her. But what of that ? It is nothing to me.” 

“ But, Stephen, you ought, for the sake of right, to 
let the truth be known about this matter,” I urged; 

“ Sake of right !” he said bitterly. “Not I. Not 
one stone will I turn, not one word will I speak. 
What ’s the use ? The devil is stronger than I, and 
I ’m not going to try and fight him. There, look at 
the letter I have written.” 

I took it up, and saw that it was addressed to the 
men of law from whom he had received the com- 
munication which had made him in one night look 
ten years older. It was very brief. As near as I 
can remember, it ran as follows : — 

“ Sir, — I beg to acknowledge the receipt of your letter 
dated . In reply thereto, I beg to state that I shall 


A LOOK AT HELL. 


239 


not offer any defence, nor take any steps with regard to 
the matter therein mentioned. 

Stephen Edgcumbe. 

August — , 1 8 — . 

“But, Stephen ” 

“ Dan, let the matter drop now. Be my friend if 
you can, old man, and say no word further about it.’' 

An expression of anguish was on his face, a look of 
despair was in his eyes ; and, according to his wish, 
I said not a word further on the matter. 

Of the next few weeks I shall say little ; of the 
trial, if trial it can be called, I shall refrain from 
speaking in anything like detail. It is painful for 
me to mention it even now, especially when I remem- 
ber the terrible effect those dark days had upon my 
friend. I could not persuade him to go out of doors 
at all; and when I suggested that he should take 
care of the welfare of his profession, he told me that 
his career as a barrister was hopelessly destroyed, 
and that he had given up his City offices. 

“ You are working very hard here, though,” I said. 

“ Yes,” he replied, “ I have been writing a little 
for the papers ever since I came to London, and the 
editors have not tossed me over. Of course none of 
my articles are signed, and thus virtuous people will 
not be called upon to give up the papers in which 
they appear. If my name had to be printed, editors 
would give me the go-by, not because they care a fig 
about morality, but because they must be respectable.” 

“ You seem to be writing a great deal,” I suggested. 

“ Yes, I am trying to work for the costs ; ” and he 
laughed bitterly. “ When they are paid, I don't 
know that I shall care much what I do.” 

“ Nonsense, old man ; surely that ’s not the way to 
talk.” 

He grimly went on with his writing, while I 
hurried away on my rounds. 


240 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


Although he never said a word about the scene in 
the Divorce Court, I should have known when it 
came on, even although I had not seen announce- 
ments of it. He evidently tried to be self-possessed, 
and certainly he was very quiet ; but I knew by his 
twitching lips, his gray ashen face, the far-away look 
in his eyes, how much the matter affected him. On 
the morning when the case opened, I managed to be 
with him longer than usual, for his dumb misery 
went to my heart. To me, who had known him in 
his glad, happy days, the sight of his agony was ter- 
rible to bear. I remember, too, how he could not 
remain in one position, or continue doing any one 
particular work. One minute he would be reading, 
the next hurrying rapidly to and fro about the room, 
the next pretending to be busily engaged in writing. 
When I touched him, too, I felt that his whole body 
was trembling, while his hands and forehead burnt 
like fire. 

As evening came on, he said huskily, " Dan, three 
days like this would kill me. Hell must be paradise 
to what I feel just now.” 

“ Things may turn out different from what you 
expect,” I said, as cheerfully as I could. 

“ Don’t, Dan, don’t. I know exactly how matters 
will turn out — exactly ; but then I am a fool. I 
fancy she will relent, I fancy that when the final 
hour comes she will allow her heart to speak ; and 
my heart throbs at every knock at the door, and I 
keep on hoping that she will come and throw her- 
self in my arms as in the olden days. I know she 
will not, and I call myself a fool for dreaming it ; but 
then — you know, Dan, you know.” 

The trial was neither long nor notorious. Hone 
of the parties were well known, no defence was 
given, and so the jury had no difficulty in deciding 
the verdict, or the judge in giving judgment. In due 


A LOOK AT HELL. 


241 


time Steplieu, who had made arrangements with a 
friend to send him the decision as soon as it was 
known, received a telegram telling him what the 
papers announced shortly after, that the woman he 
had called wife no longer bore the name of Isabella 
Edgcumbe, but was in future to be called by her 
maiden name, Isabella Tempest. 

I thought he would have fallen when he read the 
telegram ; but he controlled himself after a time, 
and then went to an arm-chair, and sat down quietly, 
and remained there for hours as immovable as a 
stone. By and by we heard the newsboys crying the 
newspapers in the street. Hextra speshol ! all the 
latest news I heard a lad shout beneath our win- 
dow, and then he turned to me and said quietly : 

“ Dan, get a newspaper, will you ? — one that 
delights most in printing filth.” 

I got a paper, and scanned its columns eagerly. 
Yes, there was a column devoted to my friend’s case. 
It contained his picture, also that of the woman who 
had been his wife, and I noticed that every sensa- 
tional element in the case had been magnified. On 
Isabella Tempest no reproach was cast, no stain 
hinted at. Stephen Edgcumbe had been unfaithful, 
he had neglected his wife, and had gone away into 
paths of wrong ; and so, of course, his wife had to use 
the only means in her power of being rid of a man in 
every way unworthy of her. The woman Baker 
gave shameful evidence, so did one or two others, 
each declaring the most sickening lies; while Ste- 
phen’s silence was taken to confirm everything said. 
The judge, in summing up, remarked upon the sad- 
ness of the case, one especially sad to him when he 
remembered the brilliant qualities of the man whose 
professional life was, through his sin and folly, inevi- 
tably destroyed. 

I hated the idea of giving him the paper ; but it 
16 


242 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


would be useless to keep it back, so I handed it to him 
without a word. I watched him closely as he read ; 
but he made no movement, save that his hands trem- 
bled ; but when he had finished, he looked at m e 
like a madman. 

“ Dan,” he cried, “ had I known that she would have 
allowed this, had I known that such lies as these 
would have been printed, I would have told the 
whole story, — I would have let the world know 
what had happened ; but there ! ” and he threw 
down the paper with a bitter laugh. 

“ Steve,” I said, “ don’t worry about yourself ! the 
world will forget all about this affair in a fortnight. 
Be glad you are freed from her. Evidently she never 
loved you.” 

“ Yes, I am free, Dan,” he said ; “ but it seems like 
the devil’s freedom. Can’t we go somewhere to-night ? 
Let us see something that will make me forget.” 

“ There ’s something decent on at ‘ The Court,’ ” I 
said. 

“ Nothing so mild as that,” he said. “ Let us go 
somewhere where the devil is let loose. Come while 
I ’m in the mood.” 

“ Nay, old man ” I said. “ There ’s enough dirt 
around, without going out of our way to get it.” 

“ Yes, but let ’s go somewhere where dirt is made 
to look nice. As you say, dirt is everywhere around ; 
let ’s have it dished up in a tempting way.” 

“ Be yourself, Steve,” I said. “ I know this is 
hard for you ; but two wrongs don’t make a right.” 

“Wrong and right. Dan, you haven’t been to 
hell ; I have, — there ’s all the difference ; and, be- 
tween you and me, hell upsets one’s notions. Be- 
sides, as Ilford and Uncle Luke used to say, life ’s 
bad at bottom. If I ’d listened to them, I should n’t 
have believed in goodness, and should n’t have been 
duped as I have been. Well, it will never happen 


A LOOK AT HELL. 


243 


again. I know what the world is, at last, and it 
seems the best thing to take it as I find it ! ‘ Eat, 

drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die ha ! ha ! ” 
and he laughed in a hollow, mirthless way. 

“ Let ’s go for a quiet walk somewhere,’^ I said ; “ a 
stroll will do us both good.” 

“ A quiet walk in Battersea ! ” he said. " A quiet 
walk with drink shops at every corner ; a quiet walk 
when girls are shrieking up and down ! Do you 
remember that Saturday night, Dan ? Do you want 
a quiet walk like that ? ” 

Every night is not Saturday night,” I replied, 
“ and we can find quiet roads even around here. If 
houses don’t suit you, let us go for a stroll along the 
Embankment.” 

“ Not to-night,” he said, in a strange, husky voice ; 
'Hhe river looks too tempting. By the way, old 
man, did you ever get drunk?” 

“ Yes ; I made a fool of myself once, when I was 
a student at Edinburgh ; never since.” 

“How did it feel?” 

“ I hardly remember ; I don’t forget the following 
day, though.” 

“ What of that?” 

“ Intense misery, aggravated by a splitting head- 
ache.” 

“ But you forgot everything while you were 
drunk ? ” 

“ Yes ; I was very hilarious, I was told ; insisted 
on shaking hands with everybody, and sung two or 
three songs.” 

“ I think I ’ll try it,” he said. 

A ring came to the door. 

“ If it is some one who wants you, Dan.” he said, 
“ don’t go out to-night ; don’t leave me alone. I long 
to be alone, but I ’m afraid. Don’t leave me, old 
man.” 


244 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


As it happened, however, T had to leave him. A 
critical case which demanded my attention, and at 
which a stranger conld not be present, forced me, 
much against my will, to deny his request. 

“ Well, I ’ll go with you to the house,” he said 
feverishly, “ and then I ’ll go for a jolly long walk. 
I ’ll get out on the Brighton Koad, and tramp and 
tramp till I ’m tired.” 

It was now dark, and we started off together, and 
to all appearance he was in high spirits. 

“ Fancy,” he cried, “ I ’rn an unmarried man again ! 
I have no encumbrances — none at all. I can get 
married again if I like, I can do anything I will, and 
I have no one depending on me. I can be idle six 
days a week, and on the seventh I can earn enough 
for bread and cheese. Nothing ties me to anything, 
not even a spark of faith. Ah, well, life has its 
compensations ; ” and he laughed boisterously. 

“ You ’ll be home by the time I get back, Steve ? ” 
I said anxiously. “ This affair may not keep me a 
couple of hours.” I was standing on the steps of the 
house where my patient lay, and held his hot hand in 
mine. 

“ Don’t depend on me, Dan. I don’t know where 
I shall go, or when I shall come back.” 

“ Try and be quiet, old friend, and I ’ll get home 
soon.” 

He went away without replying, save to laugh 
aloud ; and then with a heavy heart I placed my 
finger on the door-bell. The case which I attended 
was a critical one, and kept me till nearly midnight ; 
but when I got home, I found that Stephen had not 
returned. I did not anticipate anything wrong, and 
yet I could not help feeling anxious. I could not 
forget the ghastly look on his face which the gaslight 
revealed to me when we parted, while his mirthless 
laugh was constantly ringing in my ears. Tired as 


A LOOK AT HELL. 


245 


I was, I could not go to bed, so I sat and waited for 
him. 

About two o’clock a cab drove up to the door, and 
a minute later Steve entered the room. 

“ Still up, Dan ? ” he said, in a highly pitched voice. 

“Yes,” I said; “I was kept a long time at the 
house where we parted. Did you take a long walk, 
as you said ? ” 

“No.” 

“ No ? ” I looked at him questioningly, but he 
did not speak. His face looked very pale, and his 
eyes shone with a strange light. He pulled off his 
boots, humming a song as he did so ; then, putting 
his feet in a pair of slippers, he threw himself in a 
chair opposite me, and sat for some time in silence. 

“I’ve been to have a look at hell,” he said 
presently. 

“ To have a look at hell ? ” I repeated. 

“Yes ; just as you left, a hansom passed me. I got 
in, and told the man to drive me to the City.” 

“To the City?” 

“ Yes, to the City. I ’ve been to the mouth of 
hell, and looked in. I have n’t entered — yet ; T ’ve 
only looked in. The preachers make a mistake, Dan ; 
hell ’s very beautiful.” 

“ You are talking in riddles, old man.” 

“Am I? I mean no riddle, though. London is 
full of hells. I’ve been to three of them. Just at 
the mouth, you know. I’ve not entered — to-night. 
I wanted to see how they looked. I nearly went 
into one of them, but I was kept back. Perhaps . I 
shall have better luck some day.” 

“ Come, Steve, old man, this day has been too much 
for you. Try and sleep a little.” 

“I’m neither tired nor sleepy, and my brain is 
abnormally active. I ’m all right, Dan.” 

“ Then give me an account of your experience,” I 
said. 


246 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“ I could n’t bear to remain alone after I left you,” 
he replied. “ I wanted light, I wanted movement, I 
wanted to forget myself. All the time I was in the 
cab I seemed to be enveloped in jclouds of misery 
and pain ; but when I got across Westminster Bridge, 
things began to get better, and by the time I got into 
the Strand, where the lights were blazing everywhere, 
I felt quite gay. I am an unmarried man without 
any ties, you know ; ” and he laughed bitterly. 

“ Yes,” I said, “ you got into the Strand ; what 
then ? ” 

I dismissed the cab, and was wondering where to 
go, when a fellow I know slightly, one whom I used to 
shun when — that is, a few months ago — passed me. 
He prides himself on knowing the shady side of 
London better than any man living ; I believe, too, 
there is some reason for his boasts. Of course he 
has heard of my affair, and, after talking a few min- 
utes, asked me what I was going to do with my night, 
and offered to go with me to any place I might care 
to visit.” 

“ But you did not accept his offer ? ” 

“ I did, though. As I said, I only stood at the 
mouth ; I have not entered hell ; but it ’s very beau- 
tiful, old man. After all, I don’t think Faust did 
badly.” 

He had started to his feet, and was walking rapidly 
up and down, while a look, half of despair and half 
of wild excitement, flashed from his eyes. 

“After all,” he cried, “what is all this talk about 
right and wrong, — that is, what is it worth ? Go to 
the bottom of everything, and you And nothing but 
corruption. I’ve been struggling against the tide, 
and what’s the use of it? The people I saw to- 
night, whom the pious world calls wicked, corrupt, 
loathsome, were happy. Their eyes sparkled, they 
laughed, they danced, they were merry. I’ve tried 


A LOOK AT HELL. 


247 


to do right, tried to believe in the essential goodness 
of life, and I Ve been miserable. The sinner dwells 
in hell, so the preachers say ; well, they seem happy 

in hell, while I . There, old man, I dare n’t 

talk any more to-night. But I’m an unmarried 
man, Dan ; a bachelor like you, — is n’t it fine ? 
Good-night, old chap. I’m going to bed.” 

He left me then ; but I heard him restlessly pacing 
his room for hours afterwards, while I sat in my 
arm-chair wondering with a sad heart what the end 
would be. 


248 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


THE MARCH OF EVENTS. 


When the heart sinks, the ship sinks. 


HE next day Stephen did not stir out of the 



1 house. Hour after hour he sat brooding. I 
had, of course, to go out for several hours ; but my 
landlady told me, on my return, that he had never 
left the room in which I had left him. He brightened 
up a little when I came home to dinner, but seemed 
to take very little interest in anything. I discovered 
that he had sent out for a large number of the daily 
papers, and these he had bought in order to discover 
further particulars^ of the trial in which he was so 
terribly connected. Beyond these I do not think he 
had read anything. After dinner a man called to 
see me, and Stephen would have left the room ; but I 
prevailed on him to stay. I thought my visitor’s 
conversation might cause him some diversion. 

“ What did you say he was called ? ” asked Stephen, 
when I told the servant to show him up. 

Amos Collet. He is a leading light among some 
Plymouth Brethren over in Chelsea.” 

“Collet! then I’ve met the man; but surely 
you ’ve nothing to say to him, — he ’s nothing in your 
way.” 

Before I could reply, Amos Collet entered. He 
was what might be called a smooth man. His hands 
were soft, so was his face. His sandy hair was 
brushed smoothly down, while there is no word that 


THE MARCH OF EVENTS. 


249 


I know of which can describe his voice so well as 
smooth.” And yet there was an air of dogged per- 
sistency about him, while he possessed a kind of 
conceited assurance that was somewhat aggravating. 

His business was of no importance, — a small mat- 
ter not worth mentioning ; indeed, I am pretty sure 
that his ostensible business was only used as a 
means to carry out his real purpose. Still, when the 
questions he first asked were answered, he seemed a 
little at a loss how to proceed. 

“ I suppose you are pretty busy over at Chelsea 
just now,” I remarked. 

‘'Very busy; always busy. The work is very 
great, and much effort is required,” he replied. 

“ These elections always require much labor.” 

“ Elections ! I have nothing to do with elections. 
My time is filled up preparing for one GKEAT elec- 
tion.” 

“ Ah, Vestries and School Boards are nothing to 
you. You will work for nothing less than a Parlia- 
mentary election. To which party do you belong ? ” 

“No party.” 

“No party?” 

“ No ; my kingdom is not of this world.’' 

“ What great election do you mean, then ? ” 

“Second Peter i. 10,” was the reply. 

I stared at him for a moment, scarcely understand- 
ing him. 

“ You are never wrong when you quote the Word, 
young man. What does 2nd Peter i. 10 say ? ‘ Give 

diligence to make your calling and election sure.’ 
That is the great business of life. I give all my 
time to it ; I am constantly trying to prepare others 
for this great election.” 

I did not answer him ; I did not think it best. 

He spoke to Stephen. “ Have you turned your 
attention to this ? ” he asked. 


250 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“I have turned my attention to many things,” 
replied Stephen. 

“ What does Acts xvii. 21 say ? ” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“My friend, you want the Word, and you want 
grace.” 

“ No doubt,” Stephen answered a little bitterly. 

“You do. Excuse me, my brother, for speaking 
plainly; but your case has been pressing heavily 
upon me. Of course I ’ve heard about it, and I ’ve 
come to try and pluck a brand from the burning.” 

“Thank you, but you may spare yourself the 
trouble. Besides, you would burn your fingers.” 

“ What does James v. 20 say ?” 

“ I ’m sure I don’t know.” 

“ But you need instruction. You need to know 
the Word. Psalm cxix. 2.” 

“ Dan,” said Stephen, rising, “ you ’ll not want me 
any longer, so I ’ll go into another room.” 

“ No ; I forbid you to leave. I forbid you. It is 
at your peril that you go. Mr. Edgcumbe, you are 
young, but you are lost. Broad is the way that lead- 
eth to destruction, but narrow the way that leads to 
life. That way I ’ve come to tell you about. It was 
at my peril if I refused to come to you ; it is at your 
peril if you refuse to listen to me.” 

“ Ah,” said Stephen, “ and I suppose you think it 
honest to pretend to come here on business with my 
friend, while you really wish to insult me ? ” 

“ My reply again is James v. 20. It is also Amos 
i. 2 and Jeremiah iii. 8. I also bid you remember 
vi. Galatians 7 and 8, and Matthew xxv. 46.” 

“ And my reply is, that you are an insolent 
fellow.” 

“ I am willing to be reviled. I glory in it. I 
remember Matthew v. 11 and 12. Stephen Edgcumbe, 
you are an adulterer, an outcast. The papers to-day 


THE MARCH OF EVENTS. 


251 


tell of your sin. Think of Eevelation xxii. 15, and 
repent.” 

“ Mr. Collet,” I said, “ do you think you are acting 
like a gentleman in coming here in this way ? ” 

“ In my zeal for the great election, I care nothing 
for the world’s ideas. Your friend is afc the mouth of 
hell. I can almost smell the brimstone on his clothes. 
Revelation xvii. 5. I come to save him. from doom, 
by giving him the Word, and only the Word.” 

I started up angrily, and opened the door. “ Mr. 
Collet, this is unbearable,” I said. “ I don’t wish to 
interfere with your religious notions, but I do object 
to your coming here and insulting my friend.” 

“ Don’t bother, Dan,” said Stephen, with a sneering 
look at Collet ; “ let the maniac rave. He ’s a part of 
the make-up of the race. I ’m getting too hardened 
to care much ; let him go on with his drivel.” 

“ Maniac ! Drivel ! ” he cried. “ I ’m a leading man 
among the exclusive Brethren, while you are full of 
wounds, bruises, and putrefying sores. You are a 
moral leper ; disease is bursting out at every pore of 
your moral skin. Leviticus xxiv. 7. You are an 
adulterer, you have ruined your wife by your sin ; if 
ever man needed salvation, ’t is you. I Ve come to 
invite you to hear a converted prize-fighter. He’s a 
beautiful case. Once he was as bad as you, or nearly 
so. Come and see what we ’ve done for him, and 
what can be done for you.” 

I could withhold myself no longer, so I caught him 
by the arm, and in no gentle way led him to the 
landing. 

Mary,” I said to the servant, “ show this man 
out.” 

“ How dare you treat a messenger of the Word so ? ” 
he cried angrily. Then he controlled himself, and 
became “ smooth ” again. ‘‘ I forgive you,” he con- 
tinued blandly, and in preaching tones, “ and I wash 


252 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


my garments of the blood of Stephen Edgcumbe. I 
have been faithful. Kevelation xiv. 10 and 11. And 
although the devil holds him fast, I shall have my 
reward. I shall ‘ shine as the stars for ever and 
ever.’ ” 

He walked into the hall, and then, seeming to 
have remembered something, stopped, and, putting 
his hand in his pocket, took out some tracts. 

“ I forgive you,” he said, “ and I leave these with 
you. They contain the gospel as set forth by our 
brethren ; the only true gospel. There are only a few 
of us who have grasped it, according to the Scriptures, 
— Luke xiii. 24 ; but in this we rejoice, it shows the 
preciousness of our faith. Again I bid you beware. 
Eead Isaiah xxxiv. 10; Eevelation xix. 3; Psalm 
Ixxv. 8, and remember that I am innocent of your 
blood.” 

I could not help laughing as he went away ; and yet, 
as I saw the lines of bitterness and pain on my 
friend’s face, I repented that I should have allowed 
such a scene. 

“ I have heard that some of these people act like 
this,” I said, “ but I did not really believe it.” 

“ I can believe anything that ’s contemptible — 
now,” said Stephen ; “ but let the matter drop, — I 
don’t feel like talking about it. Anyhow, I ’d rather 
take my chance with — but never mind.” 

As it happened, our attention was turned from Mr. 
Collet’s visit by the knock of the postman, who 
brought a letter which deepened the lines of pain on 
my friend’s face. When he had finished reading it, 
he threw it to me. It contained news that was 
closely connected with the trial, the thought of which 
seemed to break his heart-strings. 

“ I can’t stay here any longer, Dan ! ” he gasped. 
‘‘I must get away. I must be alone. I want to 
forget. I think i’ll go and have another look at 


TUE MARCH OF EVENTS. 253 

those hells I saw last night. Don’t come with me ; I 
can’t bear company. Very well, then, I will not go 
to the City. I ’ll stay in Battersea.” 

He spoke like one demented, looking at me all the, 
time in a dazed sort of way. A minute later he had 
slammed the front-door, and I heard his quick step 
in the street outside. When he came in, two hours 
afterwards, he was to all appearances calm and self- 
possessed. 

For the next two or three weeks he did no work. 
The novel about which he had spoken so hopefully 
while we were in Wales he did not touch. He spent 
his time in a listless, hopeless sort of way. I tried to 
rally him, hut it was no use. 

“ What’s the use ?” he would reply. ‘'I’ve paid 
the costs, and I have a few pounds left. What’s 
gained by effort, by struggle ? Let things drift. The 
whole business of life is n’t worth troubling about.” 

About a month after the trial, I tried to rouse in 
him an interest in his novel. 

“ Steve,” I said, “ that ’s a fine idea of yours. Why 
don’t you work it out ? ” 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Such a novel would bring you fame and fortune, 
and do a world of good.” 

He laughed bitterly. 

“ Come, old man, finish it ; T am anxious to read 
it.’" 

“ I could n’t finish it, Dan.” 

“Why?” 

“ Because, first of all, I don’t want to ; second, it ’s 
not worth while making any sort of effort ; and third, 
“ I ’ve a feeling that there ’s enough misery in the 
world without me adding my quota to it.” 

“ I don’t understand, Steve. Such an idea as you 
were telling me about would do a world of good, and 
is worthy of the pen of Victor Hugo or Walter Scott.” 


254 


ALL MEN ARE LLARS. 


“ Stop that, Dan. I don’t feel up to laying bare 
the miserable dirt of life. I feel its hollowness, its 
vulgarity, its rottenness, too much to write about it.” 

“ But, Steve ” 

“ Old man, if I wrote a novel, I suppose I should 
want it read. Well, what is the kind of novel read 
to-day? People who subscribe to the circulating 
libraries ask for what ’s vulgar and dirty. Either the 
heroines must swear, smoke cigarettes, be immoral 
and vulgar, or they must be cold, heartless, and bitter. 
As Ilford said, the rage is for realism, which means 
dirt, prurient suggestions, and coarseness, which is 
called wit. Well, 1 feel the fact of evil and deceit too 
keenly to describe it. I should feel as though I were 
dipping my pen into my own — But there ; I won’t 
talk about it.” 

“ But, Steve, that was n t your idea. You told me 
about concluding your book with the thought that 
those views of life seen through the eyes of innocence 
were only true.” 

“Dan, that’s all gone. It was an illusion that has 
passed away. I’ve gone through mud since then. 
If I write what I believe to be true to life, I could n’t 
put sticking-plasters on the sores of life by society 
small talk. Besides, why should I ? It is n’t worth 
while.” 

“ Not if by writing you could lead your readers to 
have nobler conceptions of life and duty ? ” 

“Man, before you can make people believe in 
anything, you must first believe yourself I believe 
in nothing that will help. I ’ve thought out afresh 
the novel I began to write, during the last fortnight, 
and it can end only in gloom and misery. I have no 
hope in life, so why should I seek to disillusionize 
anybody ? The only happy people in the world are 
those who don’t see the ghastly truth of life just as 
it is ; well, I will not destroy their false happiness by 


THE MARCH OF EVENTS. 


255 


letting them see it. The subject of my novel was 
disillusionment; well, disillusionment to me means 
opening one’s eyes to the fact that this life is a 
misery, that goodness and virtue, and all that kind 
of thing, are only seeming, and that at bottom lies 
and corruption reign. There, Dan, old man, it ’s no 
use talking.” 

“ Then you believe that all virtue ” 

“ Can be bought with a price,” he said. “ I Ve 
seen it again and again. Men and women are alike, 
— all goes if the necessary price is offered. It 
sounds like blasphemy, Dan, does n’t it ? hut it is 
true, terribly true.” 

I had heard his Uncle Luke and Eichard Ilford 
talk like this ; hut with them everything was flippant. 
They pretended to believe in life’s mockery and evil, 
hut entered all they could into life’s enjoyments. 
Their pessimism was little more than talk; but to 
Stephen all was real. The iron had entered his 
soul. 

“ My loss of faith has destroyed desire, it has 
destroyed motive-power, Dan,” he went on ; “ noth- 
ing is worth while — nothing. What’s the use of 
anything ? Do the thing that ’s easiest, that ’s best. 
And so, Dan, I can’t write ; and even if I could, I 
would not add another wail to life’s misery ; for that 
is all my novel would be, even as that is the sum and 
substance of life.” 

The next day, as if fo prove his position, Amos 
Collet, the Plymouth Brother who had made it his 
business to seek to convert Stephen by means of 
quoting texts, was found guilty of obtaining vast 
sums of money from a rich young man whom Amos 
had converted to Plymouth Brethrenism. This young 
man was of weak intellect, and that worthy had 
frightened him into giving to “the cause,” in the name 
of Amos Collet, nearly the whole of his fortune. The 


256 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


young man’s relations had interested themselves in the 
case ; and the trial resulted in Amos, who had quoted 
much Scripture during his evidence, suffering a severe 
penalty. Thus the “brother” discovered that al- 
though faith was counted for righteousness among 
the “ brethren,” in an English law court it counted for 
very little. Neither did the judge relent when Mr. 
Collet declared that “ his zeal in the cause had eaten 
him up.” 

While one always has a sense of pleasure in know- 
ing that a hypocrite is unmasked, I could not help 
feeling sorry when I saw the effect it all had upon 
Stephen. A spirit of utter abandonment seemed to 
possess him ; he appeared perfectly indifferent to 
what in the past had great interest for him, while he 
expressed an utter want of faith in everything. The 
words of his Uncle Luke and those of his old tutor 
were often on his lips, while the shallow and flippant 
cynicism of the novels which were and are still the 
order of the day was frequently quoted. I grieved, 
too, to see how eagerly he devoured the so-called 
realistic literature of the time. He seemed to revel 
in writers who regarded virtue and purity as mere 
matters of accident, or as something that would be 
gladly given up for a sufficient price. To me, who 
had known him when his conceptions of life were so 
noble and his tastes so pure, it was terrible to dis- 
cover that to him the sacred and the beautiful were 
rapidly vanishing. 

I remember one day especially, we were riding 
together in a bus, when a bright young girl about 
eighteen or nineteen came and sat not far from us. 
Few, I think, could watch her without seeing on her 
tlie impress of innocence, and freedom from contami- 
nation with the mire of life. Her manner, as she 
spoke to a lady who was evidently her mother, was 
free from affectation, while her every movement pro- 


THE MARCH OF EVENTS. 


25T 


claimed her a true child of nature. Not that she 
was ignorant of the sin of life ; rather she was ap- 
parently able to come into contact with it, to fight it, 
and yet remain pure. 

“ What a beautiful, bright, winsome girl ! ” I re- 
marked when she left the bus. 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Most likely she is on a par with the rest of her 
sex.” 

“ She seems to me one of those who command 
trust,” I remarked, without noticing his sneer. 

“ Look here, Dan, old man, don’t you go and be 
taken in. Take warning from me.” 

“ I don’t know about being taken in,” I replied ; 
but certainly, to look at her face, and to hear her 
laugh, is to drive away all thoughts of wrong.” 

“ Dan,” he replied, “ if she is pure, it ’s because no 
sufficient price has been offered to purchase her 
purity. Her beaut}", or what you call beauty, and 
her virtue, if she has any, have their price. When 
some one comes along who will pay that price, your 
saint will become like the rest. Bah ! hundreds of 
girls who walk the streets to-night were a few years 
ago as good as she.” 

I will not repeat our conversation further ; I have 
said enough to show the bent of my friend’s mind. I 
do not profess to be better than the rest of my sex ; 
and yet, during the remainder of our ride, I could 
not help thinking of the bright, gladsome face of the 
young girl ; and where he saw vulgarity and corrup- 
tion, I saw truth and purity. 

I could perceive, too, that Stephen had lost all 
motive-power for action. When I asked him to do 
something, his reply, with a shrug of his shoulders, 
was, “ Why should I ? ” He wrote for twO' or three 
papers, and earned enough to keep him in bread and 
cheese ; and beyond that he cared nothing. Indeed, 
17 


258 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


at times lie seemed indifferent about life at all. “ If 
I weren’t a coward, I should end up the whole mat- 
ter, Nothing in this life is worth while.” 

In this way about four months passed. Stephen 
still regarded my lodgings as all the home he had, 
although he spent more and more of his time in 
the City. Then two events took place which I can- 
not help regarding aa having a tragic effect upon my 
friend’s life. 


THE LAST STRAW. 


259 


CHAPTEE XIV. 

THE LAST STKAW. 


And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 

Never to hope again. 

King Henry VIII. 

T he first of the two events which I mentioned 
at the close of the last chapter was a letter 
from our Witney doctor, telling me that my dear old 
father was dangerously ill, — so ill that he, the doc- 
tor, despaired of his life. The letter besought me to 
come home at once, or, unless a great change took 
place, I should never see him alive again. The letter 
was a terrible blow to me ; for although I have said 
but little about him in this narrative, few fathers 
loved their sons more than my father loved me, while, 
I say it with pride, I do not think many sons loved 
a father more than I loved mine. Often had I tried 
to persuade him to give up his profession, and to 
make his home with me ; but he said no. He wanted 
something to do, and although he desired much to be 
with me, he could not bear to leave Witney, espe- 
cially as so many people needed his services. Besides, 
he was not an old man, and it was against his princi- 
ples to give up work. Perhaps in a few years, when 
he felt more feeble and I had a practice of my own, 
he would come and live with me, but not yet. The 
reader may fancy, therefore, that the letter caused me 
much anxiety and sadness of heart. Still, I hoped 
for the best, and immediately went to my chief in 


260 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


order to make arrangements for my departure. Hav- 
ing attended to the most pressing matters, I was 
ready to start for home shortly after noon, and was 
just taking lunch prior to departing, when the post- 
man dropped a newspaper into the letter-box. It was 
addressed to Stephen, who, when it was brought to 
him, tore off the wrapper listlessly, without taking 
any notice of the postmark or of the handwriting. 
I watched him while he scanned the paper, as if won- 
dering why any one should have sent it to him, when 
bis attention was drawn to a marked paragraph. He 
gave a start, and began to read eagerly ; then I knew 
that the paper was sent to him because it contained 
news in which he was deeply interested. For a few 
minutes he sat staring at the paragraph like one de- 
mented ; but he uttered no sound, he simply sat and 
looked. 

Anything the matter, old man ? ” I asked. 

He paid no heed to my question, but kept on 
staring at the paper. I saw, too, that his face be- 
came paler even than usual, while his hands trembled. 

“Ho bad news, I hope, Steve ?” I said, rising from 
the table. 

My movement seemed to arouse him, and he 
started violently. 

“ Bad news 1 ” he repeated ; then he laid his head 
on the table, while his form shook violently. “ Bead 
that, and you will see,” I heard him say in a husky 
tone. 

I took the paper, and read the following para- 
graph : — 

“We are pleased to announce that Miss Isabella 
Tempest is shortly to be married to Mr. E. Hussey, 
and that the banns will be called for the first time 
on Sunday next. We are delighted to congratulate 
the young couple on the arrangement, especially when 
we remember how cruelly the young lady was de- 


THE LAST STRAW. 


261 


ceived some time ago. Indeed, it becomes our duty 
to rejoice with the Tempest family, every member of 
which is entirely free from blame in the matter about 
which we have hinted, and to express the hope that 
the young bride, as well as all our readers, will forget 
the unfortunate relation she had with a scoundrel 
who was. in every way unworthy to have his name 
associated with hers. Miss Tempest will now be 
wedded to one who is worthy of her ; one who, dur- 
ing his constant visits to our neighborhood, has won 
the love of many and the esteem of all. We hear 
that the ceremony is to take place in about a month’s 
time, after which the happy couple will take an ex- 
tended tour on the Continent.” 

“ ‘ The Witney Gazette ! ’ ” I ejaculated. 

Stephen did not speak. 

“ Stephen, old man, it is what you expected ; don’t 
give way.” 

“ Yes, it ’s what I expected — and yet . Don’t 

go for half an hour, if you can help; the ground 
seems slipping from under my feet.” 

I looked at my watch. “ I need n’t go for twenty 
minutes, old friend. I wish I had n’t to go at all. 
Could you not go down to Witney and stay with me ? 
It will be very quiet, but it ’ll be a change.” 

" Down to Witney, after reading that — no, Dan. 
I shall never go to Witney again.” 

“ But what will you do ? It will be terrible for 
you to remain here alone.” 

He rose to his feet, and by an effort mastered 
himself. 

“ I ’m all right now, Dan ; perfectly right. I ’ll be 
able to manage. After all, it is what I expected, and 
I must have been a fool to have been so affected. 
Let me see, a month ; yes, a month — and — why, 
this paper is a fortnight old ! ” 

I looked, and found his statement correct. 


262 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS, 


“ Who sent this thing, I wonder ? ” he said. 

I picked up the wrapper, which he had thrown on 
the floor, and looked at the handwriting; but it 
afforded no clue. 

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” he went on; “it is just 
what I might have known would take place. Dan, 
old man, I ’ve been so taken up by my own affairs 
that I ’m afraid I ’ve not appeared a very sympathetic 
friend. I ’m right sorry for you, though. The doctor 
says your father is very ill, does n’t he ? ” 

“ Very ill,” I replied ; “so ill that, from what he 
says, I have grave doubts about his recovery.” 

“Well, there’s no remembrance in the grave, Dan. 
He ’ll be out of trouble and pain ; and, after all, if he 
lives, the agony of life will be only a little prolonged.” 

“ My father has lived a very happy life,” I replied. 

“Has he? Well, don’t let me keep you. Good- 
bye, old man.” 

His sudden calmness oppressed me like a dead 
weight. I would far rather have seen him in a state 
of frenzy than that he should be so perfectly cool as 
he now appeared. 

“ What will you do while I ’m gone ? ” I asked. 

“ I don’t know ; it does n’t matter what I do. The 
programme is just the same wherever I go or what- 
ever I do. I ’ve seen the show, Dan, and discovered 
the tricks.” 

The cab drove up to the door. 

“ Will you stay long, do you think ? ” he said, 
taking my hand. 

“ I can hardly tell ; everything depends ” 

“Just so. But you will know all about — her. 
Dan, I can’t tear her idol from my heart — even yet. 
I know it is a thing that — doesn’t exist — it never 
did exist; but — but you’ll let me know when 
— when the — affair comes off — let me know 
directly?” 


THE LAST STRAW. 


263 


“ Yes ; 1 11 write directly I know the deed is irrev- 
ocably done.” 

“No, not write — send a telegram.” 

“ Yes ; 1 11 send a telegram. Good-bye, old friend 
— just for a little while. God bless you.” 

“ Good-bye for — a little while,” he replied, re- 
peating my words. - 

He pressed my hand eagerly. Never shall I forget 
the look in his eyes, the lines of agony drawn on his 
face. As I looked at him, I seemed to feel an icy 
hand pressing my heart. I left the room hurriedly, 
and then, when I reached the cab, I felt I must go 
back to him again and speak another word. When 
I opened the door, he stood as still as a statue, staring 
into vacancy. 

“ God bless you, brother Steve ! ” I said. “ Don’t 
give way so ; everything 11 be right some day.” 

I do not think he heard or saw me — anyhow, he 
made no movement, he spoke no word ; while I, with 
a heavy heart, turned away from him again, and told 
the cabman to drive to Paddington station. 

When I arrived home, 1 found my father very ill 
indeed. I soon found, however, that the Witney 
doctor did not understand the case, and that he had 
been treating him altogether wrongly. Educated in 
the old school of medicine, he would not listen to any 
suggestions which I, as a student in the modern 
school, suggested. 

“ I take it that thirty-five years’ practice is worth 
more than your newfangled theories, Daniel Kob- 
erts,” he said indignantly. 

“ And I must insist,” I replied, “ tliat if you insist 
on continuing the course of treatment you have 
adopted, you will kill him.” 

“ Very well,” he said ; “ then I throw up the case. 
P>ut remember that you, a lad, have insulted a man 
who was respected, ay, and known widely in the 
profession, long before you were born.” 


264 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


With this parting shot, he left the house in a very 
indignant manner. I did not hesitate, however, to 
take what steps I deemed necessary, although I im- 
mediately telegraphed to an eminent London phy- 
sician who had made a special study of the malady 
from which my father was suffering. 

The next few hours were exceedingly anxious ones 
for me. I knew that Dr. Grimes could not arrive 
from London until late the following day, while the 
course of treatment I adopted was so radically differ- 
ent from that followed by Mr. Bennett, the Witney 
surgeon, that I endured untold anguish while watch- 
ing at my father’s side. The truth was, my patient, 
whose life was so dear to me, had become in such a 
condition that only the most drastic measures would 
avail, — that was, supposing my diagnosis of the 
disease were right. Moreover, no doctor likes op- 
posing a fellow-practitioner in such a way as I had 
opposed Mr. Bennett ; and, during the long, silent 
hours of the night, I was constantly distrusting 
myself, and comparing myself unfavorably with the 
old Witney doctor, who for years had gone on his 
own way uncontradicted. 

Towards morning my father gained consciousness 
for a few minutes. 

“ I thought my boy Dan had come,”' he whispered ; 
“ and, Bennett, I feel different.” 

“ Dan is here, father,” I said. “ Dr. Bennett is not 
here. I am attending to you.” 

“ I ’m glad of that, Dan ; so glad, my dear boy. 
Am I going to get better ? ” 

“ I hope so, father. I shall be better able to see 
how things go in two or three hours.” 

“ Bennett has never seemed to be able to touch it, 
Dan ; but I ’m very sleepy, my dear boy, and I ’m so 
glad to see you.” 

“ Go to sleep, dad ; I ’ll be here all the time.” 


THE LAST STRAW. 


265 


“ God bless you, my dear ” and my father 

dropped into a sleep. 

When Dr. Grimes came, he shook his head sadly. 

“That little surgeon must be worse than an old 
woman,” he said savagely ; “ far worse. In another 
twenty-four hours your father would have been killed. 
Why — But there, it ’s no use going into a passion. 
But you ’ve done the only thing possible, Eoberts.” 

“ You think I ’ve done right, then ? ” 

“Quite right. If you’d been down twenty-four 
hours before, I should never have been sent for ; but 
it ’s a turn of a hair as to whether that little fool 
has n’t done too much mischief. We shall see in an 
hour or two. Anyhow, if your father lives, you will 
have to stay with him at least a fortnight or three 
weeks.” 

I will not tire my reader by giving any details of 
my father’s illness. It has very little to do with my 
story, and is not, I imagine, of great interest to others, 
however much it affected me. Suffice it to say, that 
a few hours later, Dr. Grimes did a very undignified 
thing for such an eminent physician : he slapped me 
on the back, and declared, with great gusto, that he 
regarded my father out of danger. 

“ But, of course, you know, Eoberts,” he said earn- 
estly, “ he ’ll need a great deal of care and attention. 
I know how hard it is for a young fellow like you to 
be away from your work, but I see no other alterna- 
tive to your staying here. You can’t give the case 
to Bennett again, while there ’s no other doctor around 
to whom you could safely trust your father ; so be a 
special medical adviser to a dear patient — and tell 
your people in Battersea that you can’t come. If, 
when you get back, you find some one in your place, 
refer to me, and I’ll get you something far better 
than being an assistant in Battersea.” 

As may be imagined, the news made me very 


266 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


happy. My only anxiety was about Stephen, ’whom 
I, of course, often wondered about, and to whom I 
wrote, telling of the result of my visit. In reply to 
my letter, he wrote congratulating me on the success 
of my treatment, and concluded with the hope that I 
should soon be able to be back at work again. The 
letter was, I thought, very cool, and did not seem 
like the production of my friend at all. 

After a few days, I was able to make inquiries 
about the people in the neighborhood, and I soon dis- 
covered that the newspaper report which had such 
an effect on Stephen was perfectly correct ; moreover 
that the wedding-day was fixed. I did not write 
and tell him this, but decided to wait until the event 
took place before saying anything to him about it. 

‘‘ It ’s a terrible business, Dan, this about your 
friend,” said my father one day when he was able to 
talk with ease. 

“ Yes, very terrible to him.” 

“ And the girl ? ” 

“ I don’t think she ’s to be pitied, father ; ” where- 
upon I told him my impression of the whole miser- 
able business, and of the effect it was having upon 
Stephen. 

“ Then you believe he ’s perfectly innocent of the 
charge brought against him ? ” 

“ I ’m sure of it, father.” 

My father was quiet a few minutes; then he 
said quietly, — 

You said nothing to me about it, Dan, and I was 
afraid — that young Edgeumbe ” 

‘‘I said nothing, because he wished me to be 
silent, father.” 

“Well, well, Dan, I shall see him soon, for I feel I 
must go and live with you now. I can’t trust the 
country doctors ; ” and he looked at me proudly. 

“ I think of taking a house near Clapliam Common, 


THE LAST STRAW. 


267 


father; there is a fine opening, and already many 
patients have come to me from there. It is a new 
practice I have made for my chief, and he, gener- 
ously, has advised me to set up on my own account.” 

Then, Dan,” said my father, “ I must have the 
pleasure of furnishing the house. And, mind yon, 
my dear boy, we must get a place with enough rooms 
for a little den to be set apart for me where I can get 
out of the way and smoke a pipe in peace.” 

After that we talked a long time quietly, and 
made plans for our future days. 

A day or so after, the woman calling herself Isa- 
bella Tempest was married ; and directly I knew the 
wedding ceremony to be over, I sent a telegram to 
Stephen, apprising him of the fact I got no letter 
from him in reply ; and although I remained at 
Witney a week after this, and wrote him twice, he 
sent me no word as to how my communication 
affected him. 

When my father was on the high-road to health 
again, and could do perfectly well without my pres- 
ence, I wrote my landlady telling her the time I 
should be back. I also dropped a line to Stephen, 
asking him to meet me at Paddington station, so that 
we could have a chat in the hansom as we drove 
back. When I arrived in London, however, I could 
nowhere see my friend, and so rode discontentedly 
back to my lodgings alone. 

When my landlady opened the door to me, I 
thought I saw an anxious look on her face. She 
seemed fearful, I imagined, of having done some- 
thing to offend me. 

“ Is Mr. Edgcumbe in ? ” I asked. 

“No, sir.” 

“ No ? Has he been out long ? ” 

“ I have not seen him for more than a week, sir.” 

“ A week ! Why did you not write and tell me ? ” 


268 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


The woman looked much worried, and seemed 
afraid to answer. While the cabman was lifting my 
portmanteau into the house, I said to her, — 

“ Will you come into my room ? I see you have, 
something to tell me.” 

She followed me into the room, and then burst 
out : — 

“ I Ve done what I thought I ought, Dr. Eoberts, 
and I ’m sure I ’ve always wished the young gentle- 
man well, although I haven’t thought as much of 
him as you have. I never had a son. Dr. Eoberts, but 
I would rather not have one at all than to have a 
gentleman who goes around looking so sad and scorn- 
ful and sneering as Mr. Edgcumbe did. Why, after 
you had left, I was almost afraid to take in his meals, 
he was so sour and miserable. He hardly ever spoke 
to me till the day on which he went away.” 

‘‘ Will you tell me exactly what has taken place ? ” 
I said, a little bit sharply. 

“ Well, Dr. Eoberts, he just went mooning around 
like any one walking in a miserable dream, till one 
day about a week ago he got a telegram, and then he 
seemed to go right mad. He got it about two 
o’clock in the afternoon. He sat in that chair, sir, 
and I came into the room two or three times, because 
I wasn’t easy in my mind about him. I spoke to 
him, but he didn’t seem to hear me. Well, about 
four o’clock I heard him moving around the room, so 
I went up again and asked him if I could do any- 
thing for him. 

“‘I’m going away, Mrs. Blewitt,’ he said. 

“ ‘ Not far away, sir, I said ; ’ for, as you know. Dr. 
Eoberts, I always like to be polite. 

“ ‘ I don’t know, Mrs. Blewitt. I may come back 
soon, or I may not come for a long while.’ 

‘“What shall T say to Dr. Eoberts ? ’ T asked. 

“ ‘ Don’t say anything. Don’t let him know I ’m 


THE LAST STRAW. 


269 • 


gone. I ’ll write him a letter, which you must give 
him when he comes back ; ’ and with that he began 
to go up and down the room as if he was in pain, — 
then he went mad.” 

“Mad ! What do you mean, Mfs. Blewitt ? ” 

“ This, Dr. Eoberts. I said to him, ‘ But where 
shall I send anything as may come to you ? ’ ” 

“ Yes ; and what did he reply ? ” I asked eagerly. 

“ He said, ‘ To hell, Mrs. Blewitt ; I ’m going there 
to get a little happiness ; ’ and with that he laughed 
in a way that made my flesh creep.” 

“ And after that ? ” 

“ He told me to leave the room for a little while, 
as he wanted to be alone. A little while after he 
came downstairs with a portmanteau in his hand. 
‘ Good-bye, Mrs. Blewitt,’ he said ; ‘ don’t write a 
word about me to Dr. Eoberts ; and then, when he 
comes back, give him the letter I have left on the 
table for him.’ He had a strange look in his eyes, and 
his face was terribly white. If I ’d met him then for 
the first time, and anybody had asked me how old he 
was, I should have judged him to be forty.” 

“ And the letter, Mrs. Blewitt ? ” 

“ It ’s there on the mantelpiece with the other 
letters, sir.” 

“ And is that all ? ” 

“ That ’s all, sir. Oh, yes, I must say this : he paid 
me up to the time he ’d been with me, and gave a 
week’s rent in lieu of notice. He ’s a strange young 
man, and he ’s had a terrible look in his face. Some- 
times I think he ’s had delirium tremens, or else is 
possessed with the devil ; but he always paid like a 
gentleman, I will say that of him.” 

“ That will do, Mrs. Blewitt,” I said, eager to get 
rid of her, and with sad doubts in my heart. ‘‘ Get 
me a cup of tea at once, will you, and get me a steak 
or chop.” 


270 


ALL MEN ARE LLARS. 


I had no appetite, but I wanted to be alone ; and I 
knew that if I did not give her something to do which 
would keep her a time, she would rush into the 
room in order to see what Stephen had written. 

I anxiously broke the seal of the letter, and read as 
follows : — 

Dear old Dan, — I have received your telegram. It 
has broken the last thread of — everything. I cannot say 
more. 

It ’s no use, I can stay here no longer. Where I 
shall go or what I shall do, I don’t know. Don’t try 
and find me. I am going to be lost to the world. All 
motive power to work, to do anything or be anything, has 
gone. I live in perpetual darkness. It is hard to bid 
you good-bye in this way, but it is best. I could not bear 
to see you again. What the future has for me, I don’t 
know ; it can’t be w'orse than the past has been. You 
remember I told you some time ago that a thousand 
devils tempted me to run loose, and only a little kept me 
from yielding. That little has gone. Why should I fight 
— or struggle 1 W^ho ’ll be the better or who the worse 1 
What is the reward of virtue — so called 1 But there — 
why should I go on writing this drivel % 

Dan, old man, everything is dark. Before, behind, 
above, beneath, — all is the same. Forget me, old man, 
blot me ont of the book of your remembrance. And y§t 
life opened up so brightly, did n’t it? What dreams we 
had down among the Witney fields ! I did n’t believe in 
Uncle Luke’s pessimism or Eichard Ilford’s dark philos- 
ophy then ; and yet how much have they had to do in 
making me what I am, I wonder ? If you should read of 
a suicide in the papers, if some body should be found like 
mine, don’t be surprised. 

Dan, I ’m a bit mad, I think, and I feel like tearing 
up the paper on which I ’ve written. All I ’ve said is 
confused and disconnected, — but what wonder ? Don’t 
expect ever to hear from me again, or to see me — alive. 
From this day, Stephen Edgcumbe does not exist. All 


THE LAST STRAW 


271 


the love my aching, bruised heart is capable of giving, is 
given to you, Dan ; but the Idol is gone at last. 

Good-bye forever. From one who was once worthy 
even to be your friend, and whom you used to call 

Steve. 

I read through the letter again and again with 
tearful eyes and an aching heart. What could I do ? 
How could I find him ? I formed a dozen plans ; I 
devised all sorts of means for seeking him and bring- 
ing him back to me again. During the months that 
followed, I tried to carry them into effect. I hunted 
high and low ; I issued all sorts of advertisements ; 
but all means failed. 

Five years and more passed before I ever even 
heard of Stephen Edgcumbe again. 


272 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


CHAPTER XV. 

AFTER FIVE YEARS. 


Impute it not a crime 
To me, or my swift passage, that I slide 
Over . . . years. 

A Winter's Tale. 

I X the five years which I mentioned at the close 
of the last chapter, my position had very much 
altered. I had secured a large and influential prac- 
tice in the neighborhood of Clapham Common and 
Wandsworth Common, and as a consequence was 
possessed of a comfortable income. I had been able 
to rent a good house, at the back of which was a 
large old-fashioned garden ; and although the garden 
abutted on to some cottage property, upon which was 
reared a large number of noisy children, and although 
I was not sufficiently far removed from some public- 
houses to suit me, I could not but be pleased that as 
a young man not thirty years of age, I had obtained 
such a good position. Moreover, I had risen to some 
eminence in the medical world, and it was no uncom- 
mon thing for my name to be associated with those 
of men whom a few years before I had regarded with 
fear and trembling. 

Like all others, I had rny time of struggling, and 
sometimes I feared I should never be anything but 
an unknown doctor ; but my dear old father was my 
constant friend, encouraging me, and bidding me 
hope amidst days that were dreary and monotonous. 


AFTER FIVE YEARS. 


273 


During those five years, as I stated in the last chap- 
ter, I never heard of the whereabouts of my friend 
Stephen Edgcumbe. He had left me without giving 
an indication as to his movements, and all efforts to 
find him were unavailing. It is true I once heard 
his name mentioned, and that was about four years 
after he had left me. 

I had called to see Mrs. Blewitt, my old landlady, 
who told me that a few days before a young lady had 
been to her house inquiring about him. 

“ A young lady, Mrs. Blewitt ? ” I said ; what 
was she like ? ” 

“ She was just like a picture, sir. Hot what you 
call a fine-looking young lady, — she was n’t big 
enough for that ; but she had such a sweet, beautiful 
face that I can’t help thinking about her.” 

“ Was she dressed like a lady ? ” 

“ Oh, certainly. Dr. Eoberts. In my young days I 
was a lady’s maid, so I ought to know. Hot that she 
had fine clothes, but they were very good, and fitted 
her just splendid. I thought she was a bit sad look- 
ing ; and yet she had such a happy way with her 
that she seemed like a bit of sunshine on a dark 
day.” 

“Well, what did she say, Mrs. Blewitt?” 

“ She asked if Mr. Edgcumbe lived here now ; 
and when I said no, she said she would like to 
see Dr. Eoberts. Then I told her that you were 
gone.” 

“ Well, what then ?” 

“Well, sir, she began asking about Mr. Edgcumbe, 
and so I — I — well — it is no use hiding the matter, 
I told her all I knew about him — about his being 
divorced, and about what he said when he went away, 
and all of it.” 

I have discovered that landladies have a remarkable 
power in discovering all about their lodgers’ histories. 

18 


274 


ALL MEN ARE LLARS. 


How they do it, I don’t know ; but I know that Mrs. 
Blewitt, after I had been lodging with her six months, 
knew as much about my antecedents and history as 
I knew myself — indeed, a little more. This was 
also true concerning Stephen. Mrs. Blewitt had by 
some means acquainted herself with the history of 
Stephen’s life ; and although I would never allow her 
to speak to me concerning his divorce from his wife, 
she knew the ins and outs of the whole miserable 
affair. Consequently when she admitted that she had 
told her young lady visitor all that she knew con- 
cerning my friend, I was certain a very voluminous 
account had been given. 

“ And how did your news affect her ? ” 

“ Why, sir, I ’m sure she must have known Mr. 
Edgcumbe at some time, for she seemed very much 
cut up at the news. She went pale too, I thought, 
and seemed agitated ; but she said nothing.” 

“ And did she tell you her name ? ” 

“ No, sir ! and that was one thing 1 did n’t like 
about her. She was never tired of asking questions ; 
but she would n’t tell anything in return, — not a 
word. In fact, I don’t think she was fair. I should n’t 
have told her so much if I thought she would tell me 
nothing. I believe in exchange of courtesies, sir,” 
— and Mrs. Blewitt tossed her head a little indig- 
nantly, — ‘‘ but she did n’t tell me her name, where 
she came from, nor anything. And yet I could n’t 
help liking her, sir, she was such a dear young lady, 
and looked so sad when I told her that Mr. Edgcumbe 
had gone to the bad.” 

“ And how old was this lady visitor of yours ? ” 

Not more than twenty, I should think, and yet 
she seemed older in many things ; but she had such 
a kind face.” 

What Mrs. Blewitt told me further concerning her 
mysterious visitor was a matter of imagination on 


AFTER FIVE YEARS. 


275 


that excellent lady’s part ; but as there was no sub- 
stratum of fact, and as her logic was not always 
sound, I did not pay much attention to her ; and 
yet on my way home, I wondered often who could 
be sufficiently interested in Stephen to come to 
Mrs. Blewitt’s and stop such a long time with her 
as this visitor of hers had evidently stopped. I 
thought of one of the Miss Tempests, also of some 
one in the City he must have known during his 
happier days. As my story will show presently, 
however, I was wrong in each of my conjectures. 

Just after this another event happened which, 
while it was not directly connected with Stephen, 
was of such importance in my own life that I cannot 
refrain from recording it. 

It happened one day that I had been invited to a 
friend’s house to a small tennis-party. I had been 
able to engage the services of an able assistant by 
this time, and was thus in a position to indulge in 
an afternoon’s amusement now and then. 

‘‘Dr. Eoberts,” said Mrs. Scobell, the lady who 
had invited me, . “ you are going to lose your heart 
this afternoon. The purest gem of a girl in all the 
world is coming here, and I am sure she is just your 
style.” 

I laughed good-humoredly, while some one sug- 
gested that I was pretty well confirmed in my sin of 
bachelorhood. 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Scobell, “but Dr. Eoberts has 
not met Naomi Eeviere. She is one among a thou- 
sand, and is as unlike the ordinary society girl as 
can be. She neither smokes cigarettes, talks slang, 
nor has she a mission. She’s just a true, whole- 
some girl.” 

“ I &gin to tremble,” I replied laughingly. “ The 
question of the moment, however, is, Can she play 
tennis ? ” 


276 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS, 


“Oh, you’ll find her your match,” laughed our 
genial hostess, leading the way to the lawn, where 
through the foliage I caught a glimpse of men in 
fiannels, and ladies in white dresses. 

“ Here, Dr. Eoberts, I am first of all going to in- 
troduce you to my favorite,” continued Mrs. Scobell, 
taking my arm. “ There, that is Naomi Keviere 
fastening her hat.” 

I gave a sudden start. 

“ Do you know her ? ” 

“ No,” I said ; “ hut I want to be introduced.” 

The truth was, I recognized the face of the win- 
some girl whom I had seen more than four years 
before when riding with Stephen into the City. 
Often since then had my heart rebelled against the 
cynical words he had spoken, and I wondered if ever 
I should see again the pure, winsome face which had 
so attracted me. She was scarcely altered. Her 
blue eyes were as bright and laughing as ever, while 
the sheen of her glossy brown hair was just as notice- 
able as then. Her face, slightly fiushed with the 
exercise she had been taking, and all aglow with 
health and happiness, her lissom form, undeformed 
by the cruel bandages which are supposed to be in- 
dispensable to a good figure, made a beautiful picture, 
and I, confirmed bachelor though I was supposed to 
be, felt strongly drawn towards her. 

Mrs. Scobell introduced us in a kind, informal way, 
and then left us together. 

“ I have seen you before. Miss Eeviere,” I 
said. 

“ I fancy you must be mistaken,” was her reply ; 
“ that is, unless you have lived at Hampstead. It is 
true, we have been living at Clapham Common 
about two months ; but I ’ve gone out very little. 
Neither my mother nor I are fond of much society ; 
and so, while we had a few friends at Hampstead, we 


AFTER FIVE YEARS. 


27T 


were little known. As for Clapham, we scarcely 
know a dozen people.” 

“I saw you four years ago when riding in the 
City one day. You were sitting with a lady in one 
of the City buses. You did not ride far; you got 
out at St. Paul's Churchyard. I have not seen you 
since.” 

And you remember me after all that time ? ” 

“ Yes*; I remember your face perfectly.” 

“ I feel a little flattered,” she said, with a laugh ; 
“ it is something to have enough individuality to im- 
press any one in that way. Dr. Eoberts, you have 
won my respect.” 

“ I am very glad,” I replied ; “ but fortune is in 
my favor. To be respected for what I cannot help is 
like winning a game by a fluke.” 

“ Yes, there is something of that nature in it, is n’t 
there ? But, do you know, whenever I am in the City, 
I am impressed with the great mass of people. Peo- 
ple seem to lose individuality, and become like pawns 
on a chessboard ; and I have such a strong love for 
myself that I hate the idea of being lost in the crowd. 
I say to myself that I should .not be missed if I were 
to slip out of life, and yet I should want to be missed. 
So, when you said you remembered me after four 
years, although you saw me but once, and then only 
for a few minutes, I felt exceedingly gratifled.” 

“But I cannot be gratified in the same way,” I re- 
sponded, laughing. “ I remember you looked at me, 
but I had not sufficient individuality to make you 
recognize me again.” 

She looked at me, and then said, with a laugh : 

“ No ; I must confess you had n’t.” Then she con- 
tinued, after a pause: “But you were n’t equipped 
for a tennis contest, then ; perhaps that will account 
for it.” 

“ Yes ; I hope it ’s the clothes.” 


278 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“That reminds me we had better start. Look, 
there ’s a court empty ; I ’m impatient to begin. Are 
you a good player ? ” 

“ You must pass an opinion after the first set. I ’ve 
heard of your powers already.” 

“ Come, Miss Eeviere,” said a voice that sounded 
very unpleasant to me, “ we want you to make up a 
set. You are to be my partner, because I am a poor 
player.” 

“ I was just starting to play a game of singles with 
this gentleman,” she said quietly. 

“ Oh, really, Miss Eeviere, I 'm depending on you, 
and at present there ’s not enough to keep the two 
courts going.” 

“Come, Naomi,” cried a lady’s voice, “.we are 
waiting.” 

“ What do you say, Dr. Eoberts ? ” said the young 
lady, turning to me. 

“ Dr. Eoberts ! ” repeated the man, who had paid 
no attention to me, “ is he here ? ” 

“ Let me introduce you,” said Miss Eeviere. “ Dr. 
Eoberts, this is Mr. John Polden.” 

I had recognized Polden’s voice from the first, and 
was wondering how to treat him, while he had been 
talking. I saw him change color; and then, with 
sudden decision, he came to me with outstretched 
hand. 

“ Oh, Dr. Eoberts and I know each other,” he said ; 
“we are old friends. I did not think to see him 
here, though.” 

I took no notice of his hand, but turned to Miss 
Eeviere. 

“Don’t let me detain you,” I said. “Presently, 
when you are disengaged, my turn will come.” 

She looked curiously from Polden to myself, then 
she went away to the court where her opponents 
awaited her ; but Polden stood near me. 


AFTER FIVE YEARS. 


279 


“ May I ask what I am to understand from this, 
Eoberts ? ” he said, with lowering brow. 

“ By profession I am a physician,” I replied. “ I 
took my degree at the Edinburgh University. I am 
not aware that we are on sufficiently intimate terms 
for you to drop my title. As to your question, there 
is no need for me to answer you.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ I mean that it is not my custom to be intimate 
with people of your calibre, especially when I know 
their nature.” 

“ You refer to ” 

“ I wish no communication with you,” I replied. 

“ You are mistaken,” he said, evidently desiring to 
be friendly. “ Ton my honor, I Ve done nothing to 
forfeit your respect, and I ’m as sorry because of that 
affair as you can be.” 

I really had not patience to answer him, but 
walked towards Mrs. Scobell, whom I saw coming 
from the house with other visitors. 

“Well, Dr. Eoberts,” said my hostess, presently, 
“ and what is your impression of my favorite ? ” 

“ That she is more than deserving of all you say 
about her,” I replied. 

“ And Mr. Polden, I saw you speaking together ; 
what is your impression of him ? ” 

I did not speak. 

“ Because,” remarked Mrs. Scobell, “ the possibili- 
ties are that Naomi will become Mrs. Polden. Mr. 
Polden’s mother and Naomi’s mother were girls 
together, and I can assure you that John is very 
assiduous in his attentions. Do you know him at 
all?” 

“ I met him years ago at Mrs. Augustus Price’s 
house,” I said ; “ but it must be quite four years since 
I saw him last.” 


280 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“ It was his mother's wish for him to be a clergy- 
man,” she went on ; “ but he stumbled at the Articles. 
Still, he claims to be very religious.” 

“ The same old cant phrase,” I thought to myself. 
“ This fellow, who professes to be so broad and char- 
itable in his religious views, reaUy believes in 
nothing but himself.” 

“ He does n’t favorably impress you ? ” said Mrs. 
Scobell, looking at me keenly. 

I endeavored to turn the conversation into other 
channels, but I saw that a look of suspicion rested on 
her face. I did not refer to him further, however ; 
and soon afterwards, to my very great pleasure. Miss 
JSTaomi Eeviere was my partner in a severely contested 
game of tennis. 

To say that I admired her would very feebly ex- 
press my sentiments. Her healthfulness, the quick 
decided movements of her lithe, graceful form, her 
total freedom from society shallowness, charmed me. 
It was refreshing, too, to see how heartily she threw 
herself into the game ; and how, when after a hard 
struggle we won the set, she expressed her gratifi- 
cation. I dare say to the society man, who admires 
the young lady of the day who smokes, swears, and 
swaggers, she would be voted slow; but to me she 
was charming. And so it was no wonder that I felt 
pained when I thought of the possibility of Polden 
winning her for a wife. I made up my mind, too, 
that if she accepted his attentions she should do so 
with her eyes open, although I could not decide as to 
the means of letting her know my estimate of his 
character, and of the grounds I had for despising 
him. 

Before the day was ended. Miss Eeviere and I were 
very friendly ; and when I went back to Iny house 
that night, I, Daniel Eoberts, was in love. I was never 


AFTER FIVE YEARS. 


281 


a ladies’ man, and was never sought after, as some men 
are. Besides, I had been wedded to my profession ; 
and outside my love for my father and Stephen, I 
had few interests. For the first time, I could under- 
stand something of what Stephen must have suffered 
during those dark days I have tried to describe, and 
my new-found love led me to devise other means for 
trying to find him. I remembered what he had said 
when we together had seen her in the City; and 
while his words pained me, I thought of how I should 
feel if I lost faith in the purity of such a girl as 
FTaomi Eeviere. 

For the next few months I saw her often; and 
while she was always kind and friendly towards me, 
I could never discover whether she regarded me in 
another light than that of a friend. 

But it is not for me to tell my own story. Very 
few of my readers, I expect, are interested in Daniel 
Eoberts ; at the same time, these memories are 
pleasant to me, and I can scarcely refrain from writ- 
ing them. 

During those months I endeavored to find out who 
Mrs. Blewitt’s visitor was. I went to her again and 
again, in the hopes that she might have received a 
further call ; but she could tell me nothing. She 
had never seen the young lady before, and she had 
never seen her since. About seven months after 
Mrs. Blewitt’s communication, I received an anony- 
mous letter in a lady’s handwriting. It ran as 
follows : — 

“You are seeking your friend. You are not alone. 
There are others besides you interested in his welfare. 
Do not spare any efforts, as I shall not. Anyhow, I 
shall not cease my search until he is found.” 

This missive bore neither date nor address. The 


282 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


paper on which it was written was common, and yet 
I knew that the writer was an educated person. Who 
it could be, I had not the faintest idea. Still, the 
letter encouraged me, for I felt that I was not alone, 
that another and a more capable searcher was at 
work. The letter inspired me, too ; for during the 
next few weeks I redoubled my efforts, and employed 
a capable detective to assist in the search. But all 
to no purpose. Week after week and month after 
month passed, and still no news of Stephen. He 
seemed to have gone out of the life of the world as 
he had said, and had left no trace behind. Daily I 
had scanned the nevrspapers, and eagerly read every- 
thing that related to suicides, but saw nothing that 
could be connected with my friend. 

“ It is no use,” I said to my father one evening. 
“ I am afraid Stephen is dead, or he would surely 
have communicated with me.” 

“Dan,” said my father, “if he is dead, then as 
there’s a God above, Luke Edgcumbe murdered 
him.” 

I started. 

“No, Dan; not in that way. The murder was 
more subtle than that. He poisoned his mind, he 
destroyed his moral courage, he placed him in the 
house of a man whose creed was the very genius of 
despair. Thus it was when trouble came he had no 
power to withstand, he had no anchorage, he had noth- 
ing upon which to rest. And when these things are 
gone, a man is really lost.” 

I said nothing, but I felt the truth of his words. 

Just then we heard the postman’s knock, and a 
minute later a servant came with the letters. On 
scanning the envelopes, I saw that the handwriting 
on one of them was identical with that of the anony- 
mous letter I had received some months before. I 
broke the seal and read eagerly. Like the other, it 


AFTER FIVE YEARS. 


288 


bore neither name nor address, and it only contained 
a few lines : — 

‘‘ If you will go to 15 Ohainly Alley, Blot Street, Strand, 
to-night, I think you will see your friend. If you do not 
see him to-night, go each night until you do. Do not be 
earlier than ten o^clock.” 


28 i 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS, 


CHAPTER XVI. 


15 CHAINLY ALLEY. 


Spots of blackness in creation 
to make its colors felt. 


Modern Painters. 


OU look startled, Dan,” said my father, after 



1 an interval of silence, during which I stood 
staring at the letter. 

“ Yes, I am startled, father.” 

No bad news, I hope ? ” 

“ Only this,” I replied ; and then I read the letter 
to him. 

“ You have no enemies, have you, Dan ? ” asked 
my father. 

" I don’t know of any, father. Why do you ask ? ” 

" It seems as though there might be some design 
to do you harm. I don’t like this Chainly Alley, 
Blot Street. Evidently, it is one of those slums 
which yet exist away from the main thoroughfare, 
and not the kind of place one cares about visiting. 
Besides, why does your letter tell you to go at night 
time, after ten o’clock ? ” 

“ I think I can see a reason for that, father. If 
this is a genuine letter, and gives a clue to Stephen’s 
whereabouts, I can quite understand why I should go 
at night.” 

'' You think he is in a bad way, then ? ” 

I was silent, only looking at my watch by way of 
answer. 

“ You mean to go then, Dan ? ” 


15 CHAINLY ALLEY. 


285 


“ Yes ; I mean to go.” 

“I will not try to hinder you, my boy. I know 
you love your friend, and I dare say I should have 
done the same at your age ; only take care.” 

‘‘ Yes,” I replied, ‘‘ I shall take care. I have al- 
ways been credited with being cautious and level- 
headed, but I cannot help going. I have a very 
strong feeling that I shall see my old friend to- 
night.” 

‘‘ But you will take a policeman with you ? ” 

“No; I think not.” 

“ But, my dear boy ” 

“ I 'm afraid it may not be best.” 

My father looked at me very keenly, and then 
sighed, as though he were in doubt. 

“ I think this is a genuine letter,” I continued . “ I 
believe the writer, although unknown to me, is a 
friend.” 

“ Why, then, is there no name to it ? ” 

“ I cannot say, and yet I begin to connect events. 
You remember that I told you a young lady had 
called at my old lodgings at Battersea, and that she 
had asked many questions about Stephen. Mrs. 
Blewitt spoke of her as an educated lady. I have 
tried to find out who she was, without any definite 
result, except that she is not in any way associated 
with the Tempest family. Well, shortly afterwards, 
as you know, I received an anonymous letter telling 
me that others besides myself were searching for 
Stephen. Now, anonymous letters which are evil in 
their purport, generally show some sign of this nature. 
There was nothing of the kind in this. As you know, 
it stimulated me to greater efforts to find my friend. 
Well, here is another letter in the same handwriting, 
telling me to go to a place where I shall possibly see 
him. The meaning of it, as far as I can see, is that 
Stephen has some friend unknown to us all, and who 


286 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


has been exerting herself to discover his where- 
abouts.” 

“ But why should she wish to remain unknown ? ” 
That, of course, I cannot say ; this I am sure : if 
I failed to take advantage of this letter, I should 
never forgive myself.” 

“ Perhaps you are right ; and yet it seems to me 
you ought to take precautions for your own safety. 
That is a bad district, full of thieves and vagabonds 
of all sorts. Eemember what you are to me, Dan, 
my boy.” 

“ I will take every precaution I possibly can, 
father.” 

I spoke calmly ; at the same time I was very much 
excited. For years I had been seeking Stephen, and 
all the time I had been harassed by haunting fears. 
Often, I feared that I should never see him again ; 
while I could not help believing that, if he lived, his 
life had become a wreck, or he would have written to 
me, or in some way let me know his whereabouts. I 
could not help remembering the terrible words he 
spoke during the last months of the time we lived 
together : " I ’ve had a look at hell, Dan, and it ’s very 
beautiful ; ” neither could I forget his parting words 
to Mrs. Blewitt, when she asked him where he was 
going, so that she might know where to send any- 
thing that came for him. “ To hell, Mrs. Blewitt ; 
I ’m going there to get a little happiness.” Knowing 
Stephen as I knew him, and bearing in mind all he 
had gone through, I had a great fear lest he had al- 
lowed himself to become the wreck which would be 
the natural outcome of the course he suggested. For 
that reason I had searched for him in those quarters 
given over to gambling and corruption, but, as I have 
said, always in vain. Of course, I knew the difficulty 
of searching for any one in London ; and so, while I 
often became downhearted, I never quite gave up hope 


15 CHAINLY ALLEY. 


287 


of finding him. In spite of my fears, too, I tried to 
think the best concerning him. I tried to fancy him 
going away to some far-off country, and there, under 
healthier circumstances, fighting his battles, and com- 
ing back to me prosperous and healthy. A nature 
like his would not, I hoped, altogether succumb to 
the faithlessness of such a woman as his wife had 
been ; and then again I remembered his training, and 
the influence it had had upon him, and feared for his 
future. 

It was eight o’clock when the postman brought the 
letter ; at nine a cab stood at my door, and I started 
for the Strand. It was a cold night in the early part 
of February. Cold showers of sleet and snow were 
falling, which made the streets of London dreary be- 
yond description. As I looked, I saw the horse’s 
hoofs splash the slush right and left ; while the pedes- 
trians on the side-walks hurried along, as though 
anxious to get by a warm fire away from the cold and 
darkness. Whitehall, I remember, was nearly deserted, 
and the great Government buildings looked grim and 
desolate ; but as I drew near Trafalgar Square, there 
were more signs of life. Cabs and carriages were far 
more numerous ; while painted, shivering creatures 
stood around, waiting to earn the bread of shame and 
death. I dismissed the cab at Morley’s Hotel, and 
walked along the Strand till I saw a policeman. 

“ Where is Blot Street ? ” 

The policeman told me. 

And Chainly Alley, that is off Blot Street, is n’t 
it?” 

The man looked at me suspiciously. 

“ There is a hole called Chainly Alley somewheres 
round there ; but I would n’t advise you to go there 
alone at this time o’ night.” 

“I’m a doctor,” I said, as if in answer to his 
curious look. “ I suppose I can find it easily 
enough ? ” 


288 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“ Oh, yes, you can find it ; but you must be careful. 
There/s lots of alleys round there, and the lamps are 
none too thick ; but the names are stuck up at the 
corners.” 

I walked on until I came to Blot Street, which did 
not run direct from the Strand, but was an offshoot 
from one of the many thoroughfares which penetrate 
through some of the most dreary places in London. 
I found Blot Street to be a miserably narrow road, 
composed of grim, dark, cheerless-looking houses, and, 
though in the heart of London, but dimly lighted. 
Few think, as they pass along amidst the blazing 
lights of the Strand, that -within two or three minutes* 
walk from the glitter and gayety that meet the eye 
on every hand, are scenes as dark as the mouth of 
the bottomless pit. After searching some little time, 
I discovered Chainly Alley. I doubt whether I should 
have found it without again inquiring, but for the 
light which shone from a public-house at the corner. 
In spite of the cold and the sleet, the place was by 
no means deserted. Youths and girls swaggered up 
and down, talking and screaming, often garnishing 
their language with epithets I will not insert ; while 
from the public-house a stream of people kept coming 
and going, and from out the constantly opening doors 
I heard the noise of ribald jest, quarrelsome language, 
and drunken laughter. No one molested me, how- 
ever ; some looked at me keenly, but all allowed me 
to pass without a word. Chainly Alley reeked with 
foul ^mells, which even the icy coldness of the night 
did not destroy. Through the gratings by the street 
side came evil-smelling vapors, evidently arising 
from the cellars, from which also came the sound of 
voices. Here I knew were thieves’ kitchens, doss 
houses, and the hiding-places of the dregs of London 
life. The light everywhere was very faint ; hut I 
quickly discovered Number 15, owing to the fact 


15 CHAINLY ALLEY. 


289 


that it was a small drinking-shop, called the Jolly 
Dog. The folding-doors of the place were partly 
open, through which I looked and saw some nine or 
ten people, but no one who in any way corresponded 
with the man I sought. 

With a heavy heart I turned from the house, and 
began to wonder if I had come too soon, when I 
heard a neighboring church clock strike ten. I waited 
until the last sound died away, and then, looking 
around, I saw two female forms standing not far 
from me, and evidently watching me. There was 
sufficient light for me to see that they were not 
dressed like the ordinary women who might live 
there. Each was warmly and plainly enveloped in a 
dark ulster, while each wore a dark, sailor-like looking 
hat. At first I thought they might be nurses, or that 
they belonged to some Home where poor fallen girls 
are received ; but seeing that their dress was not like 
any of the uniform I had seen among the nurses and 
sisters of the streets, I gave up the idea. Then the 
thought came into my mind that somehow they were 
associated with the anonymous letters I had received. 
Determining to know, I walked towards them ; but 
no sooner did they see me coming than they van- 
ished in the darkness. For several minutes I tried 
to find them, but in vain. Evidently they knew the 
locality, and were able to elude me without difficulty. 
Presently I again came up to the Jolly Dog, and, 
taking care that no one observed me, again peeped 
through the folding doors, but was quickly satisfied 
that Stephen was not among those who were there 
drinking. While wondering what step to take, I 
noticed a card in the window of the public-house, on 
which was printed the words : “ Headquarters of the 
Jolly Dog s Club.” 

That means that there is a room behind where 
the members of this ‘ Club ’ meet,” I said to myself, 

19 


290 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“The question with me is, how can I get admission, 
and what I shall do if I can manage to get there ? ” 

I had taken care, before I started, to clothe myself 
in a comparatively worn-out suit of clothes. I wore 
no jewelry whatever, having left even my. watch at 
home. I carried about two pounds’ worth of change 
in my pocket, but beyond this I had no valuables. 
Still, I knew I had nothing of the tramp in my ap- 
pearance, and might be regarded with suspicion if I 
sought an entrance to the Jolly Dog’s Club without 
any kind of introduction whatever. Then I remem- 
bered that many of these places were used as gambling 
resorts, where men of position had been known to 
gather. Anyhow, I determined to enter, and then be 
guided by circumstances as to how I should proceed. 

When I entered, a girl at the bar asked me what 
I might require, while the people who sat around 
eyed me keenly. 

“ I wish to know which is the club room,” I said ; 
“ a friend of mine, who is a member here, is coming 
to-night, and I want to see him.” 

“ All right, my dear,” said the girl. “ Sal, take this 
gent up to the billiard-room.” 

She asked no questions ; evidently my behavior 
was not suspicious, and I was admitted without any 
trouble. I followed the girl called Sal, a poor goggle- 
eyed creature, who, from her appearance, was not far 
removed from idiocy, who led me along a passage 
and up a flight of dingy stairs. The place was very 
much larger than I had anticipated, so much so that 
I was led to the conclusion that another house in the 
rear had been attached to it for purposes known to 
the proprietor. 

When we reached the top of the stairs, I heard 
the click of billiard balls and the sound of many 
voices. There was also a great chinking of glasses ; 
this led me to the conclusion that the bar-room 


15 CHAINLY> ALLEY. 


291 


wliich I had entered was an unimportant part of 
the establishment, — that the Jolly Dog public- 
house was altogether subsidiary to the Jolly Dog’s 
Club. 

The goggle-eyed girl opened the door, and I entered 
the club-room. It was large and well lighted, and 
was in many ways a surprise to me. In the middle 
was a billiard table, greasy and worn, but still eagerly 
used by a couple of fellows who played with con- 
siderable skill. On the wall a piece of cardboard 
was pinned, whereon was written the terms for 
using the board, which was designated as new. I 
gathered after that it had been lately bought cheap 
at a sale, and placed there to attract members to the 
Jolly Dog’s Club. A number of people were watching 
the game, and bets were freely offered and taken as 
to the winners. At the opposite end of the room, 
several tables were placed, where men and women 
sat drinking and playing cards, while at the corner 
was a bar, which was patronized freely. 

I had just time to see this, when a stout man, with 
a red face, came up to me. The room was very 
warm, and he had divested himself of his coat, evi- 
dently for the sake of comfort. He looked at me a 
little doubtfully, and then asked me what he could 
do for me. 

“ I wanted to look at the rules of your club,” I 
said; “and, moreover, I want to find a friend of 
mine whom I am told comes here. I have n’t seen 
him for years, but I heard that he came here.” 

“ What might be yer friend’s name ? ” he asked. 

“I am afraid that may be a bit difficult,” I 
replied. 

“You are evidently come to the wrong shop, my 
fine feller,” he said, eying me closely. “ This is a 
respectable place, and only respectable gentlemen 
and ladies come here.” 


292 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“ Of course,” I replied, “ or I should n’t think of 
coming here to look for my friend.” 

There ’s nothing wrong here,” he went on, without 
seeming to notice my reply. Everything is carried 
on straight and above board. This is a billiard 
board ; there ’s nothin’ agin the law in playin’ bil- 
liards. Here ’s some ladies and gents havin’ a quiet 
game o’ whist, over somethin’ to drink ; there ’s no- 
thin’ again’ the law in that, I hope. In about an 
hour there ’ll be a little dance in the next room ; 
there ’s nothin’ agin the law in that, I s’pose.” 

“Nothing that I know of.” 

“And you are not a member of the Jolly Dog’s 
Club ? ” 

“ No ; but that ’s no reason why I sha’n’t be, I 
suppose ? ” 

“ As in all other respectable clubs, a new member 
is proposed and seconded, and voted on by a respon- 
sible committee. Where’s your friend to propose 
you ? Who ’s the gent as ’ll second you ? ” 

“ I ’ve come to see if he ’s here. In every respect- 
able club visitors are admitted.” 

“ Name your friend.” 

I jingled the loose coins in my pocket. “ If you ’ll 
let me look around a minute, I may be able to tell 
you,” I said. 

The man hesitated a minute, as if in doubt. 

“ Look ’ere,” he said presently, “ you are no 

spy, are you ? ” 

“ On my word, no.” 

“ There ’s no underhand dealin’, is there ? ” 

“No ; nothing of the sort.” 

“ Be square, now. I ’m friendly with the beaks ; 
but this is no new dodge, is it ? If it is, by 

“ Honestly, there is nothing wrong about me. I ’ve 
been given to understand that an old friend whom I 
knew years ago is a member of the club. I want to 


15 CHAINLY ALLEY. 


293 


see if he ’s here ; if he is, to take him by surprise. 
There ’s nothing else.” 

And your friend is n’t ' wanted ’ ? ” 

“ N'ot that I know of.” 

I ’ll trust you. What ’ll you have to drink ? ” 

“ Nothing as yet ; but ” — and here I gave him half 
a sovereign — “ here is something so that you may 
drink my health while I look for my friend.” 

“ Well, look around,” he said, taking the money. 

I looked around. One or two eyed me curiously ; 
but the members of the Jolly Dog’s Club were mostly 
too busy, either betting as to who would win the 
game of billiards, or playing cards at the tables at 
the opposite end of the room. I scanned the faces 
eagerly, but I could see no one who in the slightest 
degree resembled Stephen Edgcumbe. 

“ I don’t see him,” I said, in a disappointed tone. 

“ Look here,” he said, in a low voice, “ I believe you 
mean fair. This is the public room ; but we have 
two or three private apartments where my best mem- 
bers come to have a quiet rubber of whist. The 
rank and file is n’t allowed there.” 

“ Yes,” I said ; “ would it be possible for me to go 
there ? ” 

“ A gentleman who has a friend who ’s a regular 
member can certainly have a quiet game of cards 
with his friend,” he said meaningly. “ Come this 
way.” I followed him with a fast-beating heart. 

He opened a door which led into a small, low- 
ceiled room, where a party sat at a table, on which 
were scattered greasy cards and little piles of money. 
Before each player was a glass of spirits. Two of the 
players looked up from their game angrily, as though 
they were impatient at being interrupted ; the others 
took no notice of us. There was a great silence in 
the room, and the face of each player was pale and 
excited. A moment’s scrutiny convinced me that 


294 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


my friend was not there. The proprietor of the 
Jolly Dog’s Club looked at me questioningly, and I 
shook my head. 

“ He ’s not there ? ” he said, when we had left the 
room. 

No,” I replied. “ Is this your only private 
room ? ” 

Without a word, he led me through a long pas- 
sage, and opened another door. 

“ There ’ll be more here,” he said ; and a minute 
later I stood within a room about double the size of 
the other, in which three tables were placed, around 
each of which sat a number of men and women. 
Some looked up at our entrance ; but these also took 
but little notice of us. All of them were too intent 
on their play. 


A PRODUCT OF CYNICISM. 


295 


CHAPTER XVII. 


A PRODUCT OF CYNICISM. 


Now conscience wakes despair 
That slumbered ; wakes the bitter memory 
Of what he was, what is, and what must be. 

Paradise Lost. 


I HAD not been in the room a minute before I 
felt the very atmosphere to be laden with ex- 
citement. I had often heard men talk about gam- 
bler’s fever; and although I was not playing, and 
had no stake in the game, I felt what it meant. The 
faces of the players were hard and set, their eyes 
glistened greedily, their hands trembled. Whether 
the stakes were high or low, I know not; I only 
know that life and death seemed to rest on the faces 
of the players because of the turn of a card. Still, 
each had time to drink deeply of the spirits placed 
before them, — perhaps they would have said to steady 
their nerves. 

I looked from face to face, but could not recognize 
Stephen’s among them. Still, I was not sure he was 
not there. Some of the faces were completely 
hidden, none could be seen plainly. Presently my 
attention was drawn to a man 'who played excit- 
edly — feverishly. He looked, as far as I could 
judge at the time, from thirty-five to forty years of 
age. His eyes shone with unnatural brilliancy, and 
his face was extremely pale ; perhaps /it looked' paler 
than it really was, owing to the black hair and beard. 


296 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


There was a reckless, dare-devil expression on his 
face, and he was the only one who laughed while I 
stood there. But there was no joy in the laugh ; it 
was only in bitter mockery of his evident bad luck. 

There was very little speaking, except when the 
game necessitated it ; and for the first few minutes 
the man who attracted me did not utter a word. 
Almost unconsciously I stood by the table where he 
sat, and watched the game ; and so interested did I 
become that for some time I almost forgot my errand 
there. Presently, remembering my object, I again 
scanned the faces present, and was again disap- 
pointed, when, by a turn of his head, the light fell 
on the features of the man I have described. My 
heart gave a great bound. While the man was un- 
like the Stephen I knew, he reminded me of him. I 
looked again, and was confirmed in my suspicions. 
It is true he looked ten years older than Stephen 
ought to have looked, and the lines of dissipation on 
his bearded face destroyed much of his resemblance 
to the Stephen of old days. Still, it was Stephen’s 
face, — Stephen as hopelessness and dissipation had 
made him. At that minute I cursed the creed of his 
uncle, and cursed the woman who had made him, in 
spite of himself, believe in it. I could never, had I 
not seen for myself, have believed that in five years 
a man could have been so changed. 

The party played on, unheeding the fact that I 
watched, and I noticed that Stephen was referred to 
as “ the Duke.” He played like the very genius of 
despair ; but he never made a mistake, and after a 
few minutes I saw that his luck changed, and he 
held the winning hand. But his success made no 
difference to the expression on his face. 

“ Found the man you want ? ” whispered the pro- 
prietor to me. 

I nodded. 


A PRODUCT OF CYNICISM. 


29T 


“ Is it the Dock ? ” 

I nodded again. 

“ Then don’t interrupt till the game ’s finished, or 
there 11 be to pay. The Dook ’ll stand no non- 

sense.” He pointed to a chair as he spoke, and I 
sat down. 

Presently there was a movement among the card 
party, and I noticed that money changed hands. 

“ Dook, you ’ve won again,” said one of the players. 

Ah, and taken my last brown,” said another. “ I 
say, Dook, lend us a quid.” 

“ Not I,” said Stephen. 

“ But I ’m cleaned out. Some day I may be able 

to do you a good turn — and me, you know I 

would.” 

“ You would, would n’t you ? I ’d go fat if I 
trusted to you — but there, that ’s the price of a 
drink and a bed for you ; ” and he threw a coin on 
the table. 

“ Dook, you ’re a selfish fiend.” 

Stephen laughed bitterly, and the others, enjoying 
the scene, laughed too. 

“ Come, Dook,” said another, “ it ’s early yet. Give 
me my revenge. I ’ve got a few bob left.” 

A look of interest came back to his eyes again, and 
he prepared to take his seat at the table. 

I knew that now was my time, if I intended to 
speak to him, so I went to him, and laid my hand 
on his shoulder. 

“ Old man,” I said, “ how are you ? ” 

He started, and looked at me angrily. 

“ Who — who the devil are you ? ” he said. 

" You remember me, old friend,” I replied; “it’s 
more than five years, but you remember me.” 

“ My God, it ’s Dan — here ! ” he gasped. 

“ I found you out, old fellow,” I said, as cheerfully 
as I could. 


298 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


His hand shook as I held it in mine, while his 
face became, if possible, paler than before. 

“ It ’s Dan — here ! ” he repeated ; then he seized 
a glass of spirits and drank it at a gulp. “ How did 
you find me ? ” 

The people in the room were watching us eagerly ; 
evidently they were interested in “ the bloke as knew 
the Dook.” 

Can’t we have a quiet chat somewhere ? ” I said ; 
“ it ’s such a long time since we met.” 

“ A quiet chat — here ? By God, Dan, you ’re as 
green as ever.” He caught me by the arm. “Go 
away, old man ; forget me. I never meant you to 
see me again.” This he whispered in my ear. 

“No,” I said; “now I’ve found you, I want a 
chat. I will not let you go like this, if only for the 
sake of the old days down at Witney.” 

“ Old days ! ” he gasped. “ Witney ! Come on, 
let ’s get out of this.” 

“ Come, Dook, we want our revenge,” said a vulgar- 
faced woman. “You mustn’t go away like that. 
As for yer friend, he ’ll take a ’and with us, and be 
my pal, won’t you ? ” and she leered up into my 
face. 

“ Go to ,” shouted Steve. “ Come, Dan, let ’s 

get out of this — anywhere.” 

I followed him through the billiard-room, while 
the proprietor came up and caught my arm roughly. 

“ You ’re not a-goin’ like this — so soon, and takin’ 
the Dook with you ? ” 

I placed another half-sovereign in his hand, at 
which he seemed pacified. 

“ Have you an overcoat, Steve ? ” I said. “ It ’s 
cold outside.” 

“ I forgot. Yes ; I ’ve got a rag here somewhere.” 

He took an old shabby ulster from a peg in the 
corner of the room, and led the way down the narrow 


A PRODUCT OF CYNICISM. 


299 


passage, through the tap-room aud out into the; street, 
while shouts and curses followed us. 

“Don’t you smell the brimstone?” he laughed. 
“ Where shall we go ? ” 

“ Are your apartments near ? ” I asked. 

“ Apartments ! My stars, Dan — why ! ” and 

he laughed bitterly. 

“ Come with me, then,” I said. 

“ Where ? ” he asked, looking around. “ Nowhere 
in the light. Besides, no respectable place would 
have me.” 

“ All right,” I said. I daught him by the arm and 
led him through Blot Street, and out into the main 
thoroughfare, where I hailed a hansom. 

“ Where to, sir ? ” asked the cabby. 

“ Homely Chase, Clapham Common.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

We drove across the Strand, and down one pf the 
streets which ran off it, until we came to the Em- 
bankment. The road was comparatively free from 
traffic here, and we proceeded rapidly. 

“ You are there, Dan,” said Steve, presently. 

“ Yes, old friend” 

“ It ’s dark, is n’t it ? ” 

“ Yes, it ’s a bit dark.” 

“ You don’t see any snakes, here in the dark, do 
you ? ” 

“ Snakes, no ; how can snakes get in a cab ? ” 

“ I reckon I ’ve got ’em again,” he whispered. 

“ Got what, old man ? ” 

“ The Blue Devils ; ” and he shuddered. 

“ You ’ll be all right presently,” I said. 

“ I ’m glad you are here — but, Dan, we shall see 
nobody where — where you are taking me ? ” 

“ Not a soul, if you wish it.” 

‘‘ That ’s right. Dan, you have n’t a drop of 
brandy on you, have you ? ” 


300 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“No ; why ?” 

“ I wish you had. Seeing you has shaken me a 
bit, and it’s cold — but there ’s nobody here besides 
ourselves, is there ? ” , 

“ No ; we are alone. How can anybody but our- 
selves be in a hansom ? ” 

“ I. thought I saw the grinning face of that — hag 
who spoke to you.” 

“ It ’s all right,” I said ; “ it ’s cold, I know ; a cup 
of hot coffee and a good fire will set you up.” 

We drove on until I knew that we had entered 
the Common. Then he spoke again. 

“ Dan, I ’m not going with you ; I ’m going hack. 
I ’in all right, old chap. I was never better in my 
life. Only I ’m not in your line, don’t you see ? 
It ’s no use really, old fellow. To tell the truth, 
Dan, you ’re too green for me.” 

“ W® ’ll ^^Ik about that directly, Steve. I ’ve not 
found a friend after five years to let him go so easily.” 

“ But, I say, Dan ! ” 

“ Yes.” 

He did not speak, but his hand clasped my arm 
tightly and held it fast, until the cab stopped at the 
doorway of my house. Two minutes later we were 
together in a little room which I called my study, 
and where I usually spent my evenings when I was 
alone. I pushed an arm-chair before the fire, and 
led him to it. He held his cold hands over the 
glowing fire, evidently enjoying the heat. 

“ I ’in going to order a cup of coffee, Steve,” I said ; 
“ I ’ll be back in a minute.” 

I passed by my father’s room. 

“ That you, Dan V'. 

“ What, not gone to bed yet, father ? — Yes ; it ’s 
all right. I’ve found him. More about it in the 
morning.” 

I hurried to the kitchen, and asked the old servant. 


A PRODUCT OF CYNICISM. 


301 


whom I had told to sit up for me, to bring some 
refreshments to my study door, and then I went hack 
to Stephen again. I found him still warming his 
hands over the. fire, although he looked nervously 
around when I entered. 

“ I say, Dan,” he said, “ how did you find me 
out?” 

“ Never mind that now,” I said, " we ’ll talk pres- 
ently. The drive was a cold one, and we are both 
chilled to the bone. Still, this room is warm, and 
you ’d better let me take your overcoat.” 

He pulled off the shabby garment, revealing a 
greasy, threadbare coat and trousers. 

“ I was a fool to let you bring me here,” he said 
savagely. “ I ’m not of your sort.” 

“We’ll talk about that after we’ve had some 
supper, old man,” I replied, putting some more coals 
on the fire. “ Ah, there ’s the sound of crockery.” 

“ But I can’t eat. If you have a glass of spirits, 
now ! ” 

“ Coffee made with milk is better than spirits,” I 
replied. I ’m a doctor, you know, and you must 
allow me to judge.” 

I went to the door and brought in the tray myself, 
and soon placed before him a plate of chicken and 
ham, and a cup of steaming, new-made coffee. At 
first he could eat nothing, but presently I persuaded 
him. I saw, too, that the wholesome food had a 
good effect on him ; and when we had finished sup- 
per, he looked more like the Stephen of old time. 

“ Now,” I said, pulling the chairs before the fire, 
“ let ’s talk. By the way, you are a smoker, and I ’ve 
some capital cigars. Here you are.” 

He took a cigar with trembling fingers, and began 
to smoke, while I looked at him sadly. He was but 
the wreck of his former self. There was a stoop in 
his shoulders, his hands were trembling, his face sal- 


302 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


low, and his whole form attenuated. He looked 
greasy and unkempt too, while his every movement 
betrayed the fact that he had nearly ceased to have 
any self-respect. Still, I saw that he was conscious 
of his condition; but the consciousness was not 
expressed in a look of shame, it was in bitterness 
and anger. 

“You’ve got on, my worthy doctor,” he said 
presently. 

“Yes, fairly well, Steve.” 

“ You must have done a lot of snivelling and lying 
to be able to keep up a house like this.” 

“ I don’t think so.” 

“Bah!” he said, with a bitter laugh, “ I know 
fellows with ten times your brains who can’t get 
fourpence for a bed, or a penny for a pint of 
swipes.” 

“ It’s very hard on them.” 

“ But there, what ’s the use of talking like that ? 
We were chums years ago, and I ought to be more 
polite than to disparage my host ; but I ’ve forgotten 
how to be polite — curse it ! ” 

“ Yes ; we were friends years ago,” I replied. “ I 
am glad of it, we are friends still.” 

He looked at me in a hard, mistrustful way. 

“You have dragged me away from my own do- 
main, Dan,” he said. “ I was made to feel a bit soft 
at the time by seeing you, or I should n’t have 
allowed it ; but now I ’m here, you ’ll have to give 
me a place to lie down directly ; and I ’m not much 
fit for a clean bed, by Jove 1 You ’ll have to pay for 
a cab to send me back in the morning, for I’m — 
hard up, as usual.” 

“ Of course you ’ll have a bed, old man, the best 
in the house ; but I ’m not going to send you away 
in the morning. You and I are going to have a good 
time together.” 


A PRODUCT OF CYNICISM. 


303 


“ Do you mean to say that you want a — a swill- 
tub like I am to stay with you ? ” 

Why, certainly, old fellow. Do you think I ’m 
going to let you go so easily?” 

“ There ’s no — no — cursed blarney about this, 
is there?” 

“ Blarney ! certainly not. Steve, old man, you ’ve 
had a bad time. You are going to have a good one 
now. You must stay with me till the sun shines for 
you again and you are on a fair way to win back the 
position you had years ago.” 

“ As well tell a paralyzed man to swim.” 
Nonsense,” I replied. “ You are a young fellow 
— not thirty yet. You can yet win a grand posi- 
tion' — if you try.” 

He started to his feet, and caught me by the arm. 

“Dan,” he said hoarsely, “you don’t know, you 
can’t think, what I ’ve done, w^hat I ’ve been, what I 
am. I ’ve waded through cesspools of London, man. 
Why, I ’;n the very refuse of life.” 

There was a look of yearning in his eyes, as if, 
while he told of his utter ruin, he pleaded with, me 
to believe that he was something better than he had 
described. 

“ Perhaps things are not so bad as you think,” was 
my response. “ Tell me all about it, old man.” 

“ It ’s no use. Let me go, Dan, old fellow ; I shall 
only make you miserable by retailing the filth of my 
life.” 

“ Perhaps it will be a great deal of use. I believe 
it will. I believe God will make a man of you yet, 
old friend.” 

“ God ! ” he cried. “ Make a man of me. Why, 
man, I’ve been to hell; I’ve drunk the very 
dregs of the bottomless pit. I’ve wallowed in all 
the slime and filth which this hell of London can 
produce. I ’ve been so low that the only thing I ’ve 


304 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


gloried in has been that I ’ve been more of an incar- 
nate devil than any man in London. Save me! 
Why, from your pious standpoint I’m a mass of 
moral corruption, fit only for the flames of hell.” 

There was such bitterness, such hopelessness, and 
withal such cynical boastfulness in his words that 
for a moment I was silent. 

“ Yes, your smug piety is shocked," is n’t it ? You 
thought to find me a lachrymose, repentant sinner, 
didn’t you? Well, I’m not. I’m simply w'hat 
this heavenly world has made of me, — nay, I ’m a 
sample of the kind of man your God turns out. 
Don’t you think He ought to be proud of His work- 
manship ? Look at me ! ” 

He walked to and fro the room, as if to show 
himself. 

“ I ’m a splendid specimen of the genus homo^' he 
sneered. ^‘I am a product of the nineteenth cen- 
tury. The only difierence between me and a large 
number of others is that I ’m no longer a hypocrite. 
I confess to what I am, I appear in my true light, I 
reveal my true self ; while the likes of you wear a 
garb of righteousness to try and deceive yourselves and 
the world. I am what I seem to be, and I am what 
the rest of the world really is when the mask is 
pulled aside. You don’t like to hear the truth, do 
you ? Nobody ever does. That is the one thing 
the world shuns, — truth. I am one of the great 
preachers of the world ; I reveal the truth. I tell 
the world what man really is.” 

“ Come, now, old man, you don’t believe this ; you 
know you don’t.’’ 

“ Don’t I ? But I do, though.” 

“You don’t, Steve. Do you mean to say that 
when you and I first met at Witney station we 
were incarnate fiends ? Do you believe that when 
we used to- run among the hills together, and dream 


A PRODUCT OF CYNICISM, 


305 


about the future, that we were what you say ? Did 
your mother, your father, deserve your description ? 
Nay, old friend, you forget. There is much bad in 
the world, but there is much good too. Friendship 
is real, and love is real, in spite of all you say.” 

A great sob escaped him ; then he looked into the 
fire, as though he saw something there. 

“ Come, tell me, Steve ; tell me what you ’ve been 
doing since you left me. As God is in heaven, Steve, 
I love you as much as ever one man loved another.” 

“ Love me, Dan ? ” 

“ Yes, you know I do.” 

He was silent a minute, then he said quietly, 
“ Very well, I ’ll tell you.” 


20 


306 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


CHAPTEK XVIII. 

STEPHEN’S STORY, — AND AFTER. 

In the market-place lay a dead dog. Of the group gathered 
around it, one sai^ “ This carcase is disgusting,” Another said, 
“ The sight of it is torment,” Every man spoke in this strain. But 
, Jesus drew near and said, “ Pearls are not equal in whiteness to his 
teeth,” Look not on the failures of others, and the merits of thyself ; 
cast thine eye on thine own fault, — Nizami {Persian). 

got that letter I wrote you, the one I left 
.1 with Mrs, Blewitt ? ” Stephen began. 

I nodded. 

“ I expected that would be the last communica- 
tion you would ever get from me. You know why 
I wrote it. I had been led on by degrees to that 
point. I often start reasoning now ; I think of the 
past, and calculate the forces that have made me 
what I am. A^ou know what Uncle Luke tried to 
make me believe. — By the way, have you heard any- 
thing about him lately ? ” 

“ I believe he ’s doing well in business ; but I 
know nothing of him personally. I have n’t seen 
him for years. I am told he has large colonial con- 
nections, and spends most of his time abroad; but 
go on.” ' 

“ Well, you know what he used to teach me. I 
did n’t believe in his opinions then, I could n’t. 
Then, you know, I went to Manchester under Ilford, 
and I expect I was influenced by him, — influenced by 
his talk, influenced by the books he made me read. 
But, as you know, my heart — I had a heart then — 


STEPHEN'S STORY, — AND AFTER. 307 


was always telling me that all their talk was lies. 
When they told me my disillusionment would come, 
I didn’t believe them. You know why, Dan. I 
loved that girl. You know how ardent, how trustful 
my nature was. Well, I gave her everything, — ex- 
cept my honor. But, there, I need n’t go over that 
business ; you know all about it, and we ’ve talked 
about it times enough. Well, when you sent me that 
telegram, the ground was knocked right under my 
feet. It had been going for months, and for months a 
thousand devils seemed to tell me to shake a loose 
leg, and drink the sweets of life. When I got that 
telegram, Dan, every hope in life went. I could n’t 
believe in any good. For months the rags that cov- 
ered up the world’s rottenness had been slipping 
away ; but when I knew she was married, then I 
believed everything Uncle Luke and Ilford had 
tried to teach me. I had n’t a place to stand on 
anywhere, while every bit of moral purpose left me. 
You know how I told you one night that I had been 
to have a look at hell ; well, I went to look two or 
three times after that. But I didn’t let myself 
go. There was still one hope in life. I thought at 
the time my idol was shattered, but it was n’t ; it 
was hidden away in my heart, and I loved my ideal 
still. I hoped, in spite of myself, that at the last 
moment the woman who had been my wife would 
come to herself, and, in coming to herself, come back 
to me. And I should have forgiven all, — forgiven 
even the lies told at the Divorce Court, taken her 
back, and begun life afresh. But it was n’t so ; and 
when I knew she had carried the vile thing to the 
end, then the last vestige of hope went; I saw that 
everything was a sham. I looked over my life 
since I had come to manhood, and I could not see a 
bit of virtue or truth anywhere, — of course I could n’t ; 
there was none, there is none. From that minute 


308 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


all love for Isabella Tempest went out of my life ; 
she was nothing to me, — nay, no one was anything to 
me. If there was anything I could have believed in, 
hoped in, I might have struggled on somehow ; but I 
could n’t. Books, the daily press, experience in my 
past training, told me there was no such thing as 
purity and truth ; that everything was a matter of 
price, from the parson’s prayers down to the cesspools 
of shame. Hell ! My God, I was in hell fast enough, 
— an ugly, dark, lonely hell I 

“ ' Get rid of your life,’ said something to me, and 
the suggestion seemed fascinating ; but I had n’t the 
pluck, and I was young. Besides, with the loss of 
faith in everything, and with the loss of hope, was 
also the loss of any desire to be what the world 
called good, myself. The picture of those tinselled, 
dancing things which I had gone to see in the City 
came back to me like a beautiful temptation ; every 
low impulse of my life said to me, ‘ There is no good ; 
hell is beautiful, it is sweet : drink its pleasures.’ All 
the prurient suggestions to be found in tlie society 
novels circulated at the libraries came back to me, and 
burned like fire in my veins. ‘ Why die ? ’ they all said ; 
‘ the earth is full of sweets. There is no such thing as 
virtue; you can get everything by paying. You are 
young, you are fascinating ; change your name, forget 
your past if you can. There is no God, no good, no 
heaven, except the heaven of sensual delight; no 
hell, save that of your own gloomy thoughts. Go 
to heaven, then ; go to the gilded palaces of plea- 
sure and have your fill.’ 

“ Well, I went. I gave everything like care to the 
winds. I had a few pounds, and I made the most of 
them. I would forget the past in the blissful present, 
I said, and I did. When memory began to work, I 
flew to brandy, to rum, to absinthe. I became a 
night bird ; I lived in heaven, or hell, — which you 


STEPHEN’S STORY, — AND AFTER. 309 


like to call it. Nothing restrained me from satisfy- 
ing my desires. I was good-looking in those days ; 
and under the excitement of stimulants, I was good 
company. I became a favorite with men — and 
women. By and by the pleasure from these things 
began to die away, and I realized that the one thing 
I wanted, and must have, was — excitement. So, 
from drinking in a moderate degree I had to drink 
more heavily. I drifted into gambling, — naturally, 
and so came to be — what I am. 

“ I vron’t tell you any details. Why should I ? 
There is no need. You can guess ; you can see. 
One thing always leads to another. By and by I 
wanted money, so I was led to get it how I could. 
You remember that Saturday night in Battersea, Dan, 
and how shocked I was because of what we saw. 
Well, I’ve seen twenty times as bad as what we saw 
that nigtt, and have been able to laugh at it, — ay, 
take part in it. We are all incipient devils, you 
know, and given certain circumstances, it is a mere 
reversion to type. I’ve been all you pious people 
shudder at ; I am just that now. You asked me to 
take you to my apartments, didn’t you ? Well, my 
apartments are a place where men and women live 
together, held by no law, legal or moral. When I 
am not at the Jolly Dog’s Club — a most respectable 
place, as you saw — I am with my proper compan- 
ions elsewhere. But I never appear in the daytime ; 
I ’m a thing of the night.” 

“ And are you happy, Steve ? ” I asked, for want of 
something better to say. 

“Happy! my God, man, happy! A thing like I 
am, happy ? When I can forget, and when I have n’t 
got delirium tremens, I ’m all right ; but there — it 
can’t last long.” 

“ No ; it must not last any longer.” 

“ A few years more, and I shall be dead. I was 


310 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


always one of those intense, sensitive fellows, you 
know. I could never do things by halves. Some 
can take everything quietly ; I cannot. I can’t last 
long. I expect I shall take a dip in the river soon. 
I am a powerful sermon, Dan ! ” 

On what ?” 

He hesitated a second, then he said slowly, — 

“ On what a man is almost bound to become when 
he loses faith and hope. I am a son of the times. 
I am an example of what the philosophy, the spirit 
of the age, is making men ; only the devil of it is, the 
philosophy is true. When men say there is no virtue 
in the world, they speak the truth. I ’ve tried, and I 
know.” 

The tone of hopelessness, of bitterness, with which 
he spoke was sad in the extreme ; and when I com- 
pared the wreck before me with the Stephen I used 
to know, my heart became heavy as lead. 

“ Well, old man,” I said, “ and what is to be the 
end of this ? ” 

“ I told you just now. The river, I suppose. 
Anyhow, I can’t live much longer.” 

“Not as you are.” 

“ There is no other life for me. It ’s got hold of 
me, body and soul. I know that drink, and gam- 
bling, and — and — worse, mean death; but I can’t 
do without them. I ’m wedded to the devil. Ah, 
man, if I knew that death was the end of all, I’d 
quickly get out of hell ; but it may n’t be, there may 
be an endless existence;” and he shuddered, as if 
with fear. 

For a minute I knew not what to say. Seeing 
him as I did that night, and remembering his words, 
I had but little hope for his future. But I would 
not give him up without a struggle. 

“Stephen, old friend,” I said, “you must begin 
anew from to-night. You must cross the Eubicon, 


STEPHEN’S STORY, — AND AFTER.^ 311 

and burn the bridges. There is a better country on 
the other side.” 

“ r ve seen the show called life, Dan. I Ve been 
both sides of the river, and there’s nothino^ but 
hell.” 

“ ’T wasn’t hell down at Witney in the old days.” 

“ I was blind .then ; I did n’t see life as it was.” 

“ Eather you saw life at its best, which is always 
the truest. Begin again.” 

“ I begin again ! Look at me, and then you will 
not mock.” 

‘‘ Begin again, old friend. God lives, in spite of 
all.” 

“ How can I ? Why, I am an outcast. I have n’t 
a friend in the world — besides you,” he added 
hesitatingly. 

“ You have friends of whom you know nothing. I 
should never have found you but for that fact.” 

“ How ? Tell me,” he said, with a show of 
interest. 

I told him of my visit to Mrs. Blewitt’s and of the 
letters I had received. 

“ Let ’s see those letters, Dan,” he cried eagerly. 

I brought them, pleased at the new tone in his 
voice. There was a memory of the old Stephen in 
it. 

He read them through very carefully. 

“ Evidently a woman of education, — a lady. 
Fancy any one caring about such a poor devil as 1 1 
Dan, she must have known me as I was, not as I am.” 

“ And you must become the man you were again,” 
I said, “ only better and stronger.” 

He was silent for a minute, as though thinking 
deeply; then he laughed mockingly. “Ho, Dan; it 
won’t do. For a minute I thought I saw myself a 
better man ; but a host of devils came and destroyed 
my picture. Dan, you haven’t a drop of brandy, 


312 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


have you ? I ’m dry as a hatter, and just longing for 
a drink.” 

“ No ; I have no brandy to give you. You know 
it ’s not what you ought to have. Come, old man.” 

“ It 's no use. If I had a bit of faith in myself, a 
bit of hope ! But I have n’t. The whole business to 
me is There, give it up.” 

“But life is better than you think. There is 
good in it, there is virtue, there is purity, there is 
love.” 

“ Where ? I ’ve tried to find it ; and I tell you, I 
never saw anybody, man or woman, who had n’t his 
or her price.” 

“That’s because you’ve been led to look for the 
bad, and not for the good. There are hosts of pure, 
true people everywhere. Even among the poorest, 
those living under the worst circumstances, there is 
goodness and beauty. Why, don’t you remember 
Shrimp, that little child you called Hope ? ” 

“ Yes ; I ’ve often thought about her. I expect 
she’s like the rest. She must be a woman now. 
Six years and more will have changed her. Yes ; I 
remember. I wonder what has become of her ? 
Let ’s see, they trained girls for servants in that place, 
didn’t they ? Well ” 

“ You remember what you said to her,” I said. 
“ You told her you should call her Hope, and asked 
her to be true to her new name. Let ’s hunt her 
up to-morrow.” 

A look of interest came into his eyes again. The 
thought of having something to do seemed to lead 
him to forget the darkness of life. 

“ Very well,” he said. “ A stroll in that neigh- 
borhood will be But how can I go with you 

in such clothes as these?” 

“ Oh, I can rig you out,” I said ; “ that ’s settled, 
then.” 


STEPHEN'S STORY,- AND AFTER. 313 

We talked for a long time, I trying all I could to 
lead him to forget the past, and to paint bright pict- 
ures for the future. 

“ My father is here,” I said presently ; “ you ’ll be 
glad to see him. You must try and look as you did 
in the old days. I’ll leave you a fresh change of 
clothes at the bathroom door, and I ’ll send my hair- 
dresser to you in the morning ; when your beard is 
cut off and your hair trimmed, you ’ll look a new 
man.” 

He feebly protested, but I prevailed ; and by and 
by, when I left him at his bedroom door, I began to 
feel more hopeful. 

I was aroused at half-past seven, after a very short 
sleep, to attend a critical case ; and when I returned, 
at half-past nine, was wondering what had become of 
Stephen, when, to my surprise and pleasure, I found 
him conversing with my father in the breakfast-room. 
He had submitted himself to the hands of the hair- 
dresser I had sent, and, attired in a new suit of 
clothes I had just bought, looked a different man 
from what he had appeared on the previous night. 
I could not but admire the way my father talked. 
He had evidently grasped the situation at a glance, 
and with perfect tact had set Stephen as much at 
ease as, under the circumstances, was possible. I, 
too, greeted him heartily and cheerfully ; and al- 
though he looked suspiciously at us both, as though 
wondering at our behavior, I saw that a step had 
been made in the right direction. 

A servant brought the breakfast, and with it laid 
before me my morning’s letters. In looking over the 
envelopes, I detected the writing of Stephen’s anon- 
ymous friend, who the day before had told me how I 
might find him. I broke the seal at once, and found 
the following lines, which had evidently been hastily 
written : — 


314 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“ You have found your friend. Be his near friend, as 
I shall always be. Tell him that, will you % ” 

There was no address, no date ; but evidently it 
had been written and posted just before midnight, 
or I should not have got it by the morning delivery. 
Whoever was the writer, she was cognizant of my 
visit, and was aware of my success. 

An hour later we were out together on the common. 
The weather had changed, and was now dry and 
frosty. The wind was very cold, but it was healthy 
and invigorating. For a long time we walked in 
comparative silence, Stephen scarcely giving an an- 
swer to my remarks, save the merest monosyllables. 
I saw that the excitement of the change was fast 
leaving him, and that the habits of past years strove 
for the mastery. Presently we passed a public- 
house. 

“ I ’m going for a drink, Dan,” he said ; “ a drop of 
brandy will do us both good. Come.” 

“ I ’m one of the exceptions in my profession,” I 
said. “ I am a teetotal doctor.” 

“ You won’t come, Dan ; then I ’ll go without you.” 
He turned towards the public-house door, and his 
hands trembled with eagerness. 

“ Come, Steve,” I said ; “ no good for you lies that 
way.” 

“ It ’s no use,” he said roughly. I ’m not a baby, 
to be dictated to like this.” Then he stopped ; he 
saw the pained look on my face. “ Give me up, old 
man ; I shall be drunk before the day is out. Drink 
is food and lodgings to me, and I’d sell m'y soul 
for it. It ’s hard for you, I know ; but I can’t 
help it.” 

“ Then wait till we get to the next public-house,” I 
said, a thought striking me ; “ they are not so far 
apart. Besides, I ’ve something to show you.” 


STEPHEN'S STORY,— AND AFTER. 315 


^^What?” 

“ A letter from your anonymous friend, — the one 
who told me where I should find you.” 

“ Very well, then ” he said ; “ let ’s move along 
quickly. Wliere ’s the letter ? ” 

“ It came this morning,” I said, putting it in his 
hand. 

He read it slowly : — 

“You have found your friend. Be his near friend, as 
I shall always be. Tell him that, will you 1 ” 

“ What does she mean ? ” he said presently. 

“ What she says, — that you have a friend always 
near, always caring for you.” 

“ Then I ’m always shadowed by a woman,” he re- 
plied roughly ; and yet I knew he was not altogether 
displeased at the thought. 

“ It means that you are not alone ; that a refined, 
pure woman cares whether you belong to the devil or 
to God.” 

“ A refined, pure woman — bah ! ” 

“That’s what I believe. There are refined, pure 
women, I ’m sure. She ’s one.” 

“ There ’s some devilry,” he said suspiciously ; and 
yet I could see he was interested in his unknown 
friend. 

“ What devilry can there be ? ” I said. “ What 
pure woman could gain anything by trying to save 
you ? ” 

“ Save me ? ” 

“ To save you, old man. To save you from 
drink and the devil generally. God’s angels still 
exist.” 

I had created an interest ; for a minute he had 
forgotten his thirst. It was my work to keep him 
interested. 


316 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“ You remember that beautiful girl we saw in the 
City one day,” I said, and related the circumstances. 

Yes.” 

“ She lives in Clapham,” I continued. “ I ’ve seen 
her ; she ’s as pure as she looks.” 

A sneer crossed his face, but I kept on talking. I 
told him of my meeting with Naomi Reviere, of my 
hopes concerning her; but I did not then mention 
Polden. 

“ And will you marry her, Dan ? ” 

“ I will if I can.” 

“ What, and trust in her ? ” 

“ If she will tell me what I hope,” I said, " I will 
trust her with my life.” 

He laughed loudly and bitterly. 

“ Steve,” I said, “ do you ever think of the life you 
would like to live ? Do you ever dream of purity, 
and trust, and love ? Do you never long for a life 
which is true and heavenly ? ” 

“When I am mad, when I cease to see life as 
it is.” 

“ But life can be better than your fondest 
dreams.” 

“Do you, old quiet, matter-of-fact Daniel, say 
that ? ” he asked, half cynically, half curiously. 

“I am sure of it,” I replied. “And, Steve, does 
not your dream of a better life make you hate the 
life you have been living these last few years ? ” 

“ Hate it ! ” he cried savagely, “ hate my life ! I 
have n’t lived ; I ’ve only been a vile thing crawling 
through mud. But there, what ’s the use ? The 
whole thing is a bit of slime.” 

“ The whole thing is n’t that,” I answered, “ and you 
can yet have the good, if you will. There are many 
fair flowers in the world, old man ; but if you are to 
see them, you must begin again, you must be a new 
man.” 


STEPHEN’S STORY, — AND AFTER. 317 


We had by this time come to Mrs. Morley's house, 
and so far I had kept him from drink. 

“ It 's no good, Dan,” he said wearily ; “ I have no 
hope. It has all been destroyed.” 

“ Perhaps Hope is inside here,” I said. “ I re- 
proach myself for not inquiring all these years.” 

“ If it were only possible ! ” he said, as I rang the 
door-bell. 


318 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS, 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE LOGIC OF PESSIMISM. 


Count o’er the joys thy life hath seen, 

Count o’er thy days from anguish free, 

And know whatever thou hast been, 

’T is something better not to be. 

Byron. 

A S I stood at the doorway, waiting for my ring 
to be answered, I began to realize, as I had not 
realized before, how much might depend on our visit. 
Fallen as Stephen was, a wreck of his old self, lost 
almost to all that was good, I felt sure there were 
possibilities of good in him even yet. I saw that the 
great thing to be done was to establish an abiding 
interest, to inspire within him some hope, to create a 
purpose for which he could live. I remembered, too, 
how interested he had been in the little waif of the 
streets, and I called to mind the plaintive face of the 
child. If she had grown up to be a pure, true 
woman, would she not help to make him feel the 
goodness of life, would she not inspire within him a 
hope which might be a power within him restraining 
him from evil ? I looked at him as he stood beside 
me so pale, so haggard, his nerves twitching pain- 
fully ; and knowing that he had no true interests in 
life, I prayed that my friend might become the man 
God intended him to be. 

The door was opened by a somewhat shrewish- 
looking woman of about thirty-five years of age. 
Was Mrs. Morley at home ? 


THE LOGIC OF PESSIMISM. 


319 


Would she tell us when she was expected ? 

“She is on the Continent, at Nice. Her health 
has n’t been good of late years, and she has spent the 
last two winters in the South.” 

“ Then who is left in charge of the Home while 
she is away ? ” I asked. 

“The matron and myself. I am the assistant 
matron.” 

“ Is the matron at home ? ” 

“ No ; she ’s gone to London this morning about 
some cases.” 

The term “ cases ” jarred on my ear, and I saw a 
sneer come on Stephen’s face. 

“We are come to inquire about a young girl whom 
we were the means of getting here some years ago,” 
I said. “I want to know, if possible, how and where 
she is now.” 

“ You had better come again, when the matron is 
at home,” she replied, as though anxious to get rid of 
us. “ I ’ve been here only a few weeks, and I know 
nothing about the work. I simply superintend the 
food and housekeeping department. Miss Eay attends 
to all the ‘ cases.’ ” 

“ But I wish to know now,” I said. 

“ I ’m afraid I can’t assist you.” 

I placed my card in her hand. “You must have 
some books keeping an account of those who have 
been here,” I suggested. “ I can examine the books, 
1 suppose.” 

I saw, as she looked at my card, that my name 
was known to her, and that she could no longer 
refuse. 

“ Certainly you can, Dr. Eoberts,” she said, in a 
changed voice, and led the way to the matron’s pri- 
vate room. She took from a case two or three 
volumes, and laid them before us. 


320 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


‘"What year did the girl you are interested in 
enter?” she asked. 

I told her, and she found the pages containing the 
records for that year. 

I soon found the name. “ Hope Hillyer, aged 

fifteen years and six months. Taken from 

Street, Battersea, S. W. Eecommended by Mr. 
Stephen Edgcumbe.” 

Further down the page, another entry was made, 
and dated three and a half years later. 

“Gone to 3 Moss Grove, Kensington, as lady’s 
maid. Highly recommended.” 

At the bottom was still another entry, dated nine 
months later, which made my heart as heavy as lead. 

“Left Kensington under painful circumstances. 
Gone on the streets.” 

I closed the book hastily, so that Stephen might 
not see ; but my action was useless, — he, too, had 
read the entries. 

“You see, Dan,” he sneered. “'What’s bred in 
the bone,’ you know ; besides, she ’s a woman.” 

“ Who made these entries ? ” I asked the assistant 
matron. 

“ Mrs. Morley. Up to a year or so ago she attended 
personally to every case. It was only ill-health that 
compelled her to hand over the matter to Miss Eay.” 

“ You know nothing of what these notes mean, do 
you ? ” I asked. 

“ I know that Miss Eay jots down particulars of 
each girl,” she replied. 

I opened the book again, and pointed to the words 
which were so painful to me. 

“ You think that means exactly what it says ? ” 

“ A bad case, evidently. There ’s no trusting these 
girls. Yes, there is no doubt about it. Mrs. Morley 
keeps a fuller account than this, but I know nothing 
of it.” 


THE LOGIC OF PESSIMISM. 


321 


“ Do you know of any particulars other than 
these ? ” 

“ None.” 

I made a rapid copy of the entry in my note-book, 
and turned to go. 

“ Does Miss Eay know this young girl ? ” I asked. 

“No; she left before'Miss Eay came.” 

“And when will Mrs. Morley return?” 

“ Not until May.” 

“Thank you. Most likely I shall call on Mrs. 
Morley when she returns.” 

We left the house and walked down the drive 
together, Stephen, for the first few minutes, moody 
and silent ; and then suddenly breaking out in a 
mocking song. 

“ There 's a mistake somewhere,” I said. 

“ Yes ; the whole thing ’s a mistake.” 

“ Poor thing ! ” I said musingly. 

“ Poor thing ! eh' ? She ’s happy enough in her own 
way. She’ll have fine clothes, plenty of pleasure, 
company of all sorts, and drink ! Don’t bother, Dan ; 
she ’s as she was made, and a sample of other women. 
Let her go — and I ’m going to have a drink ! Are 
you coming with me ? ” he asked feverishly. 

“ Not yet, Steve. I ’rn going to Kensington ; I ’m 
going to call at 3, Moss Grove. I don’t believe she ’s 
gone to the bad.” 

“ All right; so long ! Here ’s a pub, and I ’m ” 

“ No, old man ; you ’re going with me ! ” 

“ Going with you ? I ’ve had enough of it.” 

“You owe it to her,” I said firmly. “Through you 
this little Shrimp was admitted into the home. Let ’s 
see the end of it.” 

“ The end of it ? that ’s plain enough.” 

“ Plain or not, you must come with me.” 

He hesitated a second, and then walked sulkily 
by my side. I was fortunate in getting an early 
21 


322 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


train; and an hour later we were at Moss Grove, 
Kensington. 

The houses in Moss Grove were large and expen- 
sive, all evidently the property of rich people. 

“ Is Mrs. Jay at home ? ” I asked of the powdered 
footman. 

“ If you will give me your card, I will see,” was 
the reply. 

Three minutes later we were shown into the pres- 
ence of Mrs. Jay, a somewhat vinegary-looking lady 
of about fifty. I told her my business very briefiy. 

“I remember her perfectly well,” was her reply. 
“She was here nine months.” 

“ May I ask why she left here ? ” ^ 

A waspish smile crossed her lips. 

“Her — her — relations with my late husband’s 
son were becoming — very painful, and — so she 
had to go,” 

“ Have you any idea where she is now ? ” 

“ I do not know. I would rather not speak about 
her any more.” 

“ And your stepson, could I see him ? ” 

“ I do not know where he is.” 

“ That is, he is away from home just now ? ” 

“I have not seen him for six months. Where 
he is now, I have not the slightest idea,” she replied 
icily. 

I rose to leave. “ There is nothing further you 
could tell me ? ” 

“ Nothing.” She placed her hand on a bell-knob, 
a servant came, and a minute later we were in the 
street. 

“ If the poor little thing did n’t go to the bad in a 
house like that, it would be a wonder,” said Stephen ; 
then he added, after a pause : “ and wherever she 
is, I ’ll wager my life that she ’s more virtuous than 
her late mistress. There, Dan, we ’ve got to the end 


THE LOGIC OF PESSIMISM. 


323 


of the matter — and just as I expected! I have no 
illusions now ; ” and he laughed bitterly. 

I looked at my watch. 

“ We shall be just in time for a late lunch,” I said ; 
and, before Stephen could reply, I called a hansom, 
and told the cabby my address. 

I will not describe our conversation as we drove 
home together. It was too painful. The genius of 
despair seemed to have possessed him wdiolly, and 
his expressions concerning our morning’s experiences 
revealed to me the fact that he had fallen lower, even, 
than I had feared. After lunch I was obliged to leave 
him for a while, and when I returned for dinner he 
was not to be found. 

That night, between eleven and twelve, he was 
brought home hopelessly and helplessly drunk ! 

I will not write in detail my experiences with him 
during the next few weeks. If ever one’s faith, and 
patience, and friendship were taxed, mine were. 
Nothing I could say or do seemed to restrain him. 

“It’s no use,” he would say, when he had to an 
extent slept off the effects of his dissipation ; “ the 
devil ’s got hold of me body and soul. I ’m as help- 
less as a baby. I may as well go back. Pan ; I shall, 
at any rate, have a welcome at the Jolly Dog — until 
the end comes.” 

There was only one hope left to me, humanly 
speaking, and that was, that he loathed the life he 
was living. He shuddered at the idea of going back 
to the City ; he hated the fatal power that held him 
down to drink and sensuality, even while he hugged 
it to his bosom. But he had no faith or hope in any- 
thing better, and thus he had no moral purpose. 

“I shall never be anything but what I am,” he 
would say, with a shudder. “Don’t try and do 
anything more for me, — unless you can give me a 
strong dose of something, and send me out of time.” 


324 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


''Nay, Steve,” I would reply; "you’ll be a man 
again yet.” 

" A man, Dan ! ” And then he would pour out the 
darkness of his soul, as though he delighted in evil. 

But he did not attempt to leave me. Again and 
again was he brought to my house in such a condition 
that when he came to his senses he would abuse him- 
self for staying at Clapham Common and disgracing 
me ; and although, after struggling for days, he would 
yield again and again to the basest desires, he shud- 
dered at going back to his old companions. 

" Dan,” he said one evening, " I ’m going to end it 
all. I will not trouble you any longer, for I cannot 
live without worrying you. It ’s only one leap, old 
man, a cold shiver, and then — it ’s all over.” 

" Do you ever pray, Steve ? ” . 

" I pray ? Nay, I ’ve tried, hut I hug the devil too 
close to pray. I don’t believe in anything, Dan, — 
that ’s it. If I could only believe there was a God 
who cared, if I could believe in goodness, I could 
hope then, — ay, hope that a poor filthy devil like 
myself could be saved ; but I don’t, that ’s the curse 
of it. Oh, Dan, I ’ve tried since I ’ve been with you. 
You and your old dad have together made me wish 
to ; but there, what ’s the use of trying ? You see 
how I ’ve got on. I. revel in filth, after all. The 
other night I walked by the river, and it did seem 
enticing. It looked so calm, so restful. ' There,’ I 
said, ' if I could only have pluck to get in there and 
rest forever, forever;’ and I shall soon, old man, 
I shall soon.” 

All this time I tried to find out who Stephen’s 
unknown friend was, but in vain. She was as mys- 
terious as ever. From the first day Stephen lived 
with me on Clapham Common, I heard no word from 
her. If she remained his friend, she certainly took 
care not to allow herself to be seen. As the early 


THE LOGIC OF PESSIMISM. 


325 


spring came on, I began to have more hope of him. 
He grew interested in my love for Naomi Eeviere ; 
and when I told him that my rival was John Polden, 
he became aroused into indignation. 

“ I am not fit to speak to a pure woman, if there is 
one ; but I am better than that beast,” he said, with 
a touch of passion. “ Can you not tell her, Dan ? ” 

“Scarcely,” I replied; “at any rate, not yet. You 
see, we have no proof against him, and he is too clever 
not to turn the tables on me.” 

The evening after that, I remember, we were walk- 
ing together on the common, when a woman came and 
took his arm familiarly. 

“ I Ve found you at last, Dook,” she said. 

She was a low, coarse woman, and had evidently 
been drinking. 

Stephen started back. 

“ Get away, you hag ! ” he cried. 

“ No, no, Dook,” was her reply; “ you won’t be hard 
on an old friend like this.” 

I need not describe what followed, except to say 
that he was able, after some time, to bribe her to 
leave. 

“ Let me get off somewhere, Dan ! ” he cried, as 
soon as we were alone again. “ She ’ll dog me while 
I ’m here. I must leave your house, old man ; but I‘ 
cannot go back again. I can’t, and I won’t.” 

While I was terribly saddened, I could not help 
feeling too glad, because of his loathing for the old 
associations. I saw that it was becoming stronger 
the longer he stayed with me. If I could only inspire 
hope and faith for a new and better life, 1 should not 
have been so downhearted. I must confess, too, that 
my own prospects looked anything but bright that 
night, as I had just heard that Naomi Eeviere and 
her mother had gone away from Clapham for a length- 
ened visit. 


326 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


As we drew near to the house, we passed Polden. 
He did not speak ; but the recognition was mutual 
on Stephen’s part as well as on my own. I thought, 
too, that I saw a look of triumph on his face. 

Neither Stephen nor I spoke during our walk home ; 
but I knew that he was passing through deep waters. 
Memories of the old life were weighing on his mind, 
— memories laden with darkness. We entered my 
study together, where my evening letters awaited me. 
Listlessly I read them, until I came to one from a 
friend at whose house I sometimes visited. There 
was only one passage which interested me ; that was 
the postscript, which ran as follows : — 

“ You have, of course, heard that Mrs. and Miss Reviere 
are gone to Devonshire. I was told yesterday, by one 
who knows, that the latter’s engagement with Mr. Polden 
is now a settled thing.” 

“ Anything the matter, Dan ? ” asked Stephen, who 
had evidently been watching me. 

I passed him the letter, and, with a bitter laugh, 
pointed out the postscript. 

“ Ah ! Poor old Dan ! You are finding it out, like 
the rest of us. The world’s a hell, Dan; that’s all.” 

He sat down in gloomy silence, and for hours he 
did not speak ; while I, saddened, aye, and almost 
maddened, by my own affairs, did not try to make 
him talk. Presently my father came in, to* whom I 
also showed the letter. 

“ I don’t believe it, Dan,” said my father. “ I know 
Miss Reviere, and I ’ve seen that fellow. This is a 
lying report; she would never engage herself to 
him.” 

But I would not be comforted, and sat despairing, 
while my dear old dad talked with Stephen. To me 
there was something noble in my father’s faith; it 


THE LOGIC OF PESSIMISM. 


327 


was so unostentatious, yet so real. To him, religion 
— God — was not a matter of books, or evidence, save 
the evidence of his own consciousness. The abiding 
assurance that God was at the heart of the universe 
made him at all times cheerful and strong. I remem- 
ber, too, how he led Stephen to talk about this ; and 
so buoyant was my father’s faith that he aroused an 
amount of interest in my friend. 

“ Stephen,” he said, “ I don’t close my eyes to all 
you say. The world seems bad. But there ’s a soul 
of goodness in things evil, and all that we see will be, 
in God’s own time, made to work out His will. Behind 
pain, behind squalor, vice, misery, aye, behind hell it- 
self, God is.” 

For a minute Stephen did not reply; and then, 
when he was about to speak, he was stopped by a ter- 
rible scream in the near distance, which was followed 
by oaths and curses. 

“ There ’s not much God in that,” said Stephen. 

Murder!” 

It was a woman’s cry that rang out ; and as it was 
now late, it sounded terrible in the silence of the night. 
All of us rushed out of the house in the direction 
whence the sound came. I saw a dark form lying on 
the ground. It was a somewhat unfrequented road, 
not far from the public-house which stood near my 
house, and which I mentioned sonje chapters back. 
I also heard retreating footsteps, but saw no one but 
the prostrate form of a woman. 

On examination, I found her to be unconscious. 
She was bruised about the head, and severely cut 
about the neck. I saw at once that it was a case for 
the hospital ; and as by this time several people had 
come from some small houses in the Battersea direc- 
tion, I asked one of them to fetch a cab at once. 

“ I see ’er a-drinkin’ with a feller in the Silver Jug,” 
said one beetle-browed fellow who had come up. 


328 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


I took his name and address ; and then, while we 
were waiting for the cab, I gained all the information 
I could. 

“ Will you go with me, Steve ? ” I said presently, 
when we had lifted the woman into the conveyance. 

“No,” he said, somewhat roughly. “I can do 
nothing.” 

“ Shall you be gone to bed before I get home ? ” 

“ Bed ? I — don’t know. Perhaps — yes, and 
asleep. I can sleep. Pare thee well, old man.” 

I did not like leaving him, but it could not be 
helped. Meanwhile my father went into the house, 
but Stephen told him he should not be in for a few 
minutes ; he wanted to make further inquiries. 

For some time after my father had left him he 
walked along the common like one in a dream ; then 
he turned and went towards Battersea. It was now 
past midnight, and but few people were in the streets. 

He hurried quickly along Street, until he came 

to Battersea Park Eoad, and then made his way to- 
wards Chelsea Bridge. When he came near to the 
bridge, he hesitated. 

“ No,” he said to himself, “ I can bear it no longer. 
It is eternal misery — eternal misery. I cannot bear 
to go back to the old life, although a thousand things 
seem to beckon me that way ; and I cannot face the 
future. I cannot live to be the plaything of every 
temptation. I am disgracing Dan ; already people are 
beginning to fight shy of him, because of me. Besides, 
what is there to make it worth while ? I believe I 
know that woman whom I saw nearly murdered just 
now. All life reeks with hell. Why stay, then ? 
Dan will be happier without me.” 

He came to the suspension bridge, and looked down 
on the river as it rolled slowly towards the sea. The 
tide was high, and was just now beginning to ebb. 
Lights of various colors flashed on the waters, illumi- 
nating it with a strange beauty. 


THE LOGIC OF PESSIMISM. 


329 


“One plunge, and all will be over,” he said. “One 
plunge, then a choking sensation, then a struggle, and 
then — nothing ! All iny misery over ; rest — for- 
ever. And yet, how do I know ? ^ow do I know ? ” 

He walked on towards the Chelsea side. 

“ How ghastly that woman’s face looked, as Dan 
bound up her w^ounds ! ” he went on. “ Eh — poor 
old Dan — and he ’s a sad heart, too. How down in 
the mouth he was when that hag from the Dials came 
across us to-night ! And she ’ll come again — and I 
shall drink again ; my mouth is burning like fire now ! 
My God ! — no, there ’s no God ! — and this is life. 
Everywhere is filth, lies, hell.” 

He reached the Chelsea side, and walked up the 
river by the Embankment. 

“ Even that little Shrimp, whom I called Hope, was 
false to the name I gave her. Hope! Hay, all’s a 
delusion. What is there to hope for ? Did I ever 
know a pure woman ? Did I ever know one that 
could n’t be bought with a price ? Ho ; the world is 
a great lie. Let me get out of it, then ! ” 

He leaned over the railings by the river, and looked 
down on the cold waters. They looked strangely 
restful, and made but little noise, only now and then 
a faint gurgle. The river was beautiful — and it 
offered peace. 

“ I am such a poor thing,” he went on musing, — 
“ such a poor thing. I have n’t a bit of strength, a 

bit of pluck. I ’d do the dirtiest But there, 

what ’s the use ? And yet life opened up brightly, 
did n t it ? — and this is the end of it all. I wonder 
what it will be — after. Well, I shall soon know. I 
shall solve the mystery of death soon — and yet, how 
I cling to life I ” 

He climbed the wall. It was not high, and offered 
no obstacle. He saw the trees lining the river over 
in Battersea Park ; he saw the broad stretch of water 


330 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


between, sbimmering in the many-colored lights. He 
looked around, but could see no one, and yet thought 
he heard a sound. 

Like lightning, his mind flashed again through the 
history of his past ; he tried again to face the future. 
Ho, no ; there was nothing to live for. 

What was that ? 

It was nothing; the great city was asleep. Ho 
one would see him, no one would know. He was 
strangely calm, he had no fears, and the river was 
so peaceful, so different from the life he had been 
living. 

“What secrets the old Thames could tell,” he 
mused ; “ what a history of madness, and murder, 
and hell it could relate, if it could only speak ; but 
it won’t. Ho, it will never speak.” 

He thought he heard another sound. 

“It’s some one coming,” he thought; “perhaps this 
way. Well, my father never thought this would be 
my end — and mother, — shall I ever see them again, 
I wonder ? ” 

He hesitated another second. “ That ’s the sound 
of a footstep, I’m sure,” he thought. Then with a 
sob of anguish he fell into the river, and the cold 
waters closed over his head. 


PART TIL 


HOPE. 


CHAPTER I. 

BEGINNINGS. 


Oh that a man would arise in me, 
That the man I am might cease to be. 


W HEN Stephen again opened his eyes to the 
light of consciousness and reason, he was 
lying in his old bedroom at my house, and I was 
sitting by his side. 

“ Where am I ? What is this ? ” he asked con- 
fusedly. 

“It's all right,” I replied. “You’ll soon be all 
right again.” 

“ But — but how came I here ? ” 

“You fell in the river, — .don’t you remember? 
Well, some one saw you as you fell. You were fished 
out after some time, and brought here. Since then 
yon ’ve been ill with brain fever.” 

He remained silent for some time, as if he were in 
deep thought. 

“ It was a mistake, Dan,” he said presently, “ a 
ghastly mistake.” 

“ Yes, it was,” I replied ; “ but you must have been 
off your head for the time. The events of that even- 
ing were too many for you.” 

“No, not that. I was sane enough. I had been 
thinking about it for days. The mistake was in 


332 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


dragging me out. I — I doubt if I shall have pluck 
enough to do it again.” 

“Oh, no,” I replied, as cheerfully as I could, “you 
won’t do it again.” 

“ Why did n’t you let me be ? ” he said half angrily. 
“It would have been all over then ; now I have 
come back — to — to — this ! ” 

“Bless you, old man,” I replied, “there are 
brighter days coming.” 

“ I don’t think I could do it again,” he went on, 
without heeding me. “ It was terribly hard to die 
— terribly.” 

“ You did n’t die,” I said. 

“ But I went through it all — all.” 

Some days afterwards he told me about it, — told 
me, too, of his thoughts and feelings while he stood 
hesitating before going to what he believed would 
be his death. 

“ How did I get out ? ” he asked presently. 

“ You were watched — followed,” I replied. 

“ Who watched me — who followed me ? ” 

“ Your friend ; don’t you remember ? ” 

“ My friend, — the writer of those anonymous 
letters ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“Was — that is — is my friend a woman ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

I had aroused his interest, and I let him talk on. 

“ How did she know about me ? ” 

“ She has been searching for you for a long time, 
and watching you ever since she found you.” 

“ But why ? ” 

“ Because she was interested, I suppose.” 

“ Where is she now ? ” 

“ In this house.’' 

“In this house — here ? ” 

“Yes; she has been your nurse ever since you 
were brought here.” 


BEGINNINGS. 


333 


His eyes lit up, as if tie were wondering. “ Can it 
be possible that any one can be so interested in such 
a poor devil as I ? ” he said to himself. 

“ Evidently.” 

He lay for two or three minutes without speaking ; 
then he said, with a shudder, — 

“ What and where should I have been now, I won- 
der, if I had n’t been pulled out ? A hopeless life 
is ghastly enough, but a hopeless death is ghastlier. 
Dan, I should like to see this — this lady ; but no, 
she must scorn such as I.” 

At this moment the door opened, and a low, sweet 
voice spoke : 

“ Ah, he ’s conscious, then.” 

The speaker was below the medium height, and 
about twenty-two years of age. She had a thought- 
ful face, yet it was not sad ; her great gray hopeful- 
looking eyes made this impossible. Strictly speaking, 
I suppose it was not a beautiful face ; very likely, 
had she applied to an artist to become a model, lie 
would have bowed her out, — reluctantly, and with 
regret. Hers was a winsome face, full of sunshine ; 
a face to inspire the best and purest thoughts. 
Though below the medium height, there was nothing 
dwarfed or puny about her. Her figure was finely 
moulded, and full of energy. But what would strike 
the observer more than anything else, in looking at 
her for the first time, would be her eyes. Large, 
luminous, suggesting wondrous possibilities of sacri- 
fice, heroism, love. 

Stephen started as she came, into the room, and 
looked at her eagerly, wonderingly. 

“Who — who are you?” he asked, in a confused 
sort of way. 

“ I am Hope, master,” she said, and then left the 
room hastily. 

“ Hope,” he repeated. “ Can’t you call her back, 


334 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


Dan? I want to know. You don’t mean to say 
that ” 

“I mean that you must go to sleep, old man. 
You ’ve talked enough for the time. When you are 
awake you will be stronger ; then I will tell you all 
there is to tell.” 

He wanted to remain awake, wanted to talk. Tliis 
was a great deal. When he awoke again, he would 
not awake to utter dreariness ; he would have some- 
thing to inquire about, something to interest him. 

I gave him a draught, and shortly afterward he fell 
asleep, looking more like the old Stephen than I had 
seen him look since the crushing blow of his life had 
fallen upon him. 

When I returned to the house, after making some 
necessary calls, his nurse met me on the stairs. 

“He’s awake again, and seemingly perfectly 
conscious,” she said. “He will get well.” 

“ Has he seen you ? ” 

“ I think he just caught a glimpse of me. I 
watched him while he slept, but left the moment 
I saw he was waking. Your housekeeper is sit- 
ting with him now, and he is plying her with 
questions.” 

When I reached his room, I found him propped up 
with pillows, evidently impatient at the way my old 
nurse, who was now my housekeeper, parried his 
questions. The old lady left the room as I entered, 
and we were alone together. 

“ Dan, old fellow, tell me — that is — everything.” 

“Well, then, Steve,” I said, “you’ve been within 
an inch of death. You would have been ill, very ill, 
if you had n’t — fallen into the water. You could n’t 
have gone on as you ’d been going. But your cold 
bath hastened and intensified it, so that we ’ve had a 
job to pull you through. You see, you ’ve done all 
in your power during these last few years to destroy 


BEGINNINGS. 


335 


your constitution. Thank the pure life of your an- 
cestors that you were not altogether successful.” 

“ Yes, yes, I know,” he said impatiently ; “ but tell 
me about my being dragged out of the water ; tell me 
who my nurse is ! ” 

“ Your nurse ? She told you herself, — Hope.” 

But not little Shrimp, — Hope Hillyer ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ The little thing we took away from that hag, and 
sent to Mrs. Morley’s ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ But — but they said she was — on the streets.” 

I nodded. 

“ But that was n’t true ? ” 

“ Yes ; it was true.” 

“ Is n’t there a mistake, Dan ? ” he asked wistfully. 

Do you mean to say that ? ” 

“ She was on the streets till a few weeks ago. She 
left them — to nurse you.” 

“And you — you took her in ?” 

“ Certainly.” 

A great blight seemed to fall on his face. “ Every- 
where it is the same — everywhere,” he said bitterly. 

“Don’t draw conclusions too quickly, Steve,” I 
said. “Let me tell you her story before you say 
harsh things.” 

“ Yes ; tell me. Besides, what right have I to 
expect any other ? My God, what have I been ! ” 

“ Of course you remember our visit to Mrs. 
Morley’s house ? ” 

He nodded. 

“ You remember the entry in the journal that she 
went to Kensington as a lady’s maid, and left under 
distressing circumstances ? ” 

“ Of course.” 

“ Well, I ’ve made further inquiries. You see, she 
was not twenty years of age when she went to 


336 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


Kensington. As you saw, too, she is by no means 

bad looking. Young Jay was a fast man about 

town, and lie pretended to fall in love with her, and 
she was young and inexperienced. Besides, you 
know her early associations ; you know how she 
was taught to regard life, and how hard it is for 

young girls in such a position to keep pure. In- 

deed, you have said again and again that none do 
keep pure, that everytliing is a matter of price. 
Well, think of the case of this orphan girl; re- 
member all the circumstances ; call to mind, too, 
the woman w’e saw, who, you said, was enough to 
drive any girl to the bad, and then think of her being 
in daily contact with this young Jay, who pretended 
to be madly in love with her.” 

“ Say no more, Dan ; I ’ve heard enough.” 

“ And yet, Steve, in spite of everything, that girl, 
reared as she was, with every allurement placed in her 
path, remained as pure as an angel.” 

“ What ? ” 

“ I mean that she rejected young Jay’s offers of 
love, and that, in spite of the most dreadful alterna- 
tives, she did that which needed the purity of a 
saint, and the courage of a heroine. She came 
through the ordeal untainted. I have seen young 
Jay and others ; I have talked with them. Steve, 
if ever anything was proved to be a black lie, that 
ghastly creed of yours, the creed which 3"our uncle 
and tutor taught you to believe, and which circum- 
stances have seemed to confirm, has been proved to 
be the blackest lie the devil ever put it in the mind of 
man to tell. Jay admitted it to me. Persecuted 
and alone as she was, she kept as pure as the angels 
of God.” 

He started up in his bed. “ Then, Dan,” he cried, 
“what is the meaning of your other ghastly admis- 
sion ? Why, why on your own account she became 
a — a thing on — the streets ! ” 


BEGINNINGS. 


337 


“ On the streets, — yes, but not to sin, Steve ! ” 

“ What for, then ? ” 

“ To rescue — to save.” 

And she — she did not tell you this ? ” he said 
suspiciously. 

“ No ; she did not. Mrs. Morley came home sooner 
than she anticipated, and came to see me. She told 
me the whole story, old man, — told me, too, how when 
Hope had a life of ease and comfort offered her, she 
refused it in order to rescue her poor fallen sisters.” 

Then I saw what I was afraid I should never see 
again. Tears started to Stephen s eyes and trickled 
down his cheeks. 

“ Is it possible, after all ? ” he murmured. 

“ It is more than possible ; it is a fact,” I said. 

He remained silent for some time, as if thinking 
deeply ; then he said slowly, “ And so I, who — who 
had something to do — with rescuing her, went 
straight to hell; she, with everything against her, 
lived in the purity of heaven.” 

“Yes.” 

A look of abject misery and shame rested on his 
face. 

“ What must she think of me ? ” he said slowly. 

“ She thinks of you with a great pity,” I replied. 

“ Pity,” he repeated. 

“Yes, pity,” I repeated; “especially since she 
heard your story.” 

“ Then you told her ? ” 

“ There was little for me to tell. Mrs. Blewitt told 
her a great deal ; the rest she had little difficulty in 
knowing.” 

“Then she knows I am — what I am, and a 
suicide ? ” 

“ She knows what you were, old man — she hopes 
for the future. You see,” I went on, “she had a 
better chance than you had.” 


338 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“ A better chance, man, — how ? ” 

« Why, you taught her to hope, to believe. You 
gave her her new name, you know. She had some- 
thing to which she must be true. You were not 
taught to hope, or to believe, save in a hopeless 
creed. Thus it was, when the one link which kept you 
in spite of your , training, was broken, you drifted.” 

“ And now it ’s too late.” 

“ Too late for what ? ” 

“ Too late to begin again.” 

“ No, old man ; it is never too late to begin again.” 

Again he was silent for a while, after which he 
broke out suddenly, “ I say, Dan, how did she find 
me out ? Besides, what led her to seek me out ? ” He 
asked this suspiciously, as though he thought there 
might be some ulterior and evil motive at work. 

“ You had better ask her,” I said ; “ she T1 be here 
presently.” 

“No, no; send her away,” he said pitifully. “I 
shall be ashamed for her to see me.” Then, after 
a second, “ How long do you think she T1 be, old 
man ? ” 

“Not long, I expect,” I replied; “or it may be 
she ’s resting. She ’s had a weary time nursing you, 
you know.” 

“ Can it be really so ? ” he said, as if musing. “ Can 
I really haye been wrong, after all ? ” Then he lapsed 
into silence again, and by and by tired nature over- 
came his excitement, and he fell asleep. 

While he slept, I began to try and think of the 
future. What was to become of Stephen ? As he 
lay on his bed, he did not inspire any bright picture 
for the coming days. Thin almost to emaciation, 
and many lines of dissipation on his face, his youth 
gone before he should have entered into its fulness 
and strength ; his means of livelihood gone, confidence 
gone, faith gone, ay, and moral purpose gone too, — 


BEGINNINGS. 


339 


he was in a pitiful condition. Besides, what assurance 
had I that when he was able he would not again drift 
into drunkenness and all kinds of dissipation ? Many 
bonds held him to the old life in Chainly Alley. 
Indeed, it semed to me that the Stephen of the old 
days had gone forever. And even though he should 
break with the old life altogether, what could he do ? 
The law as a means of existence was impossible to 
him now, while I had little hope that any editor 
would accept his articles as they had in the old days. 
Would-be journalists were as thick as blackberries, 
and he had no strength to face difficulties. He was 
too old to begin anything afresh. His whole life 
seemed an utter wreck. I tried to form plans con- 
cerning him ; I tried to think of setting him up in 
some business; but nothing seemed feasible. Poor 
Stephen ! his prospects looked black indeed. 

I turned towards him, and watched nim as he 
slept, caught some of the hopelessness that he mur- 
mured in his sleep, and noted the utter weakness of 
the man. My heart was very heavy. 

“ Does God live ? ” he said aloud. I thought at 
first that he was awake, and had asked me the ques- 
tion; but I saw he was only dreaming, and his 
question was the repetition of the one he had often 
asked when awake. His words staggered me, re- 
buked me. I pretended to believe in God. Who 
was I, then, to despair? 

He awoke soon after, and for a long time lay 
thinking in silence. 

“Dan,” he said, “it may be that she is all you 
say; there may be hope for the world, but there 
is none for me.” 

I was silent. 

“What can I do? what can I be?” he said, as if 
repeating my own thoughts. “ I am a helpless pauper. 
But for you I might starve.” 


340 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


" I don’t know wliat you can do — yet,” I said ; I 
do know what you can be.” 

“ What?” 

“ A man, Steve.” 

“ No ; I ’ve no strength, old fellow.” 

I heard a rustle by the bed, and I saw that 
Stephen started. 

“ Yes,” said a, voice. 

Stephen looked up into Hope Hillyer’s face pite- 
ously, beseechingly. 

“ You heard — you know ? ” he said. 

She nodded her head. 

“ Have you any hope for me ? ” 

“ A great hope,” she replied. 

“But how can you, knowing what you do?” 

“ How can I help ? ” she replied, with a little laugh 
that was half a cry. “ You gave me a new name 
years ago, and I must be true to that, you know.” 


/ BID YOU hope:* 


341 


CHAPTER II. 

“I BID YOU HOPE.” 

For we are saved by hope ; but hope that is seen is not hope. — Paul. 

^ T TILL you tell me,” said Stephen, after a few 
V V minutes’ silence, “ how you found out where 
I was ? ” 

Hope Hillyer looked pained, and seemed in a 
difficulty. 

“ Shall I tell you everything ? ” she asked. 

“ Yes — everything.” 

A wistful look came into her eyes, as though she 
would recall the past. “You remember the night 
when you first saw me ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“And you remember, too, the time when Mrs. 
Morley came to fetch me ? You know I wanted to 
remain and be your servant ? ” 

“ I remember.” 

“ And then, when Mrs. Morley’s carriage came to 
the door, you told me you had given me a new name, 
and bade me to be true to it ? ” 

Stephen nodded. 

“I seemed to live a new life from that time. 
Before then everything seemed repression, resistance ; 
but after that I felt as though there was something 
positive in my life, something to look forward to. 
You became a sort of hero, and the constant thought 
in my mind was, that I must do what would please 
you. I often wondered why you did not come and 


842 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


see me, and again and again I asked Mrs. Morley 
about you. As time went on, and I heard nothing 
more from you, I thought less about you, but I never 
forgot your words. You heard about my going to 
Kensington, and why I left there. It was while I was 
at Mrs. Jay’s that I was led more than ever before to 
look to One higher than you. One who alone can give 
strength for every difficulty. I seemed to have no 
one but Him on my side when I left Kensington. 
It was then I decided to help those who did not know 
Him. Then, when I had started on my work, I 
thought of you, and wondered what you were doing. 
So I made up my mind to go to Mrs. Blewitt’s, and 
ask for you. She did not know me again, but she 
told me about you. At first I could not believe her 
story, it was so different from the picture I had 
drawn of you. Then I inquired about Dr. Eoberts, 
and I was not long in finding out how he had sought 
to find you, in vain. I determined to find you, and to 
let Dr. Eoberts know about you, so as, if possible, 
to repay you for saving my life. You know the work 
I have been doing; Dr. Eoberts has told you. It 
was through that work I discovered you.” 

“ How ? ” asked Stephen, a look of intense shame 
and misery on his face. 

She hesitated a minute; then she said, with a 
slight flush on her face, “ One night I came across a 
poor dying girl who lived near Covent Garden. She 
knew you, and told me where I should be likely to 
find you. Once you told her your real name, and 
something of your story. It v^as through her I was 
able to tell Dr. Eoberts where you often passed your 
nights. She also told me of your way of life, and 
how she fully expected you would kill yourself.” 

“ What was her name ? ” 

“ She told me her true name was Alice Bell. She 
was called ‘Queen Belle’ by those with whom she 
associated.” 


I BID YOU hope: 


343 


And she, where is she now ? ” 

“ She ’s dead. Well, when Dr. Eoherts went to 
Chainly Alley, and brought you back here, I remem- 
bered her words, and so I wrote, asking him to 
watch you closely, and telling him I would do the 
same. I did not sign my name to the letters I wrote. 
I scarcely knew why, except that for some time I had 
been known as Sister Hope, and I don’t like the title, 
it seems so ostentatious ; while as for signing myself 
' Hope Hillyer,’ I thought I would rather let him 
know who I was in some other way. 

“ You remember that you were brought here two 
or three times when you were unable to walk ? Well, 
it was I who caused you to be brought home. I think 
you may remember one of the men who helped you, 
— an old man whom people call ‘ Happy ’Lijah.’ He 
has often been my companion in doing my work.” 

But why did you take all this trouble about a 
poor wretch like I am ? ” 

I could not help it ; I remembered what I might 
have been but for you.” 

“But how — did you discover me that night at 
the — river ? ” 

“ I came, with the matron of our Home, to the 
place where Dr. Koberts had discovered that poor 
murdered girl, soon after he had gone away. Old 
Elijah was with us, and we heard Dr. Eoberts’ father 
inquiring for you. We searched for some time ; then 
some one told us that he had seen you walking 
towards Battersea. I remembered Alice Bell’s words, 
and determined to follow you. We heard you walk 
across the bridge ; we were close to you when you fell 
in. A policeman whom we happened to see plunged 
in after you ; the rest was very simple.” 

She told her story simply, hesitating now and then 
for the right word, and sometimes stopping when she 
saw a look of pain flash across Stephen’s face. I saw. 


344 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


too, that she seemed afraid lest we should think she 
was talking too much about herself ; but her manner 
was free from any taint of immodesty, — free, too, 
from that goody-goody religiosity which is too com- 
mon among those who profess to give their lives to 
work similar to hers. 

“ It was n’t worth while,” said Stephen, bitterly. 

“ What was n’t worth while ? ” 

“ Saving such a life as mine.” 

“ No, it was n’t, if you are going to be as you have 
been ; but then you are not, you know.” 

“ You think, then ” 

“ I think you are going to be a new man.” 

His frame visibly shook. “ If I could only believe 
that ! ” he said, with a sob. “ Do you believe I can ? ” 

“Yes; I believe you can. You remember that 
you gave me a new name, — Hope ? Well, I am going 
to be true to it, so must you.” 

“ But I am so weak. I have no purpose ; every- 
thing seems gone. You don’t know the past, per- 
haps ; you don’t know what led me to take the road 
to hell.” 

“ Yes, I know ; Dr. Eoberts has told me all.” 

“ And knowing what you do, you bid me hope ? ” 

“ Yes ; I bid you hope. And I shall hope, too, for 
I shall pray.” 

I watched his face closely ; I saw a light, which 
seemed to me to tell of resolution, flash into his 
eyes ; I saw his lips tremble, even while he com- 
pressed them ; I saw his thin hand, which rested on 
the counterpane, clench tightly. 

“ Then I will try and hope, too, and I will try and 
be something different from what I am,” he said 
slowly. 

“ And let me say something else,” she said eagerly. 
“ I almost hesitate to speak of it, because it has been 
bandied about so much that with many it has lost 


I BID YOU hope: 


345 


its true meaning ; but it is truer than anything else 
in the world: you must hope and believe in our 
Father above, before you can hope and believe in 
yourself, or in others.” 

“ But how can I hope in Him ? I am not sure 
that He exists.” 

“ Will you read a book that I will send you ? ” 

“ Yes ; but you are not going away, are you ? ” 

“ Hot yet ; you will read carefully, thoughtfully, 
won’t you ? ” 

^‘Yes.” 

Thus Stephen began to try and find his way back 
to a new life. 

A fortnight later, Stephen and I sat together in 
my study. Hope Hillyer had gone back to her work, 
— the saddest, yet the noblest that any one can do. 
She had been sunshine in my house, as my old house- 
keeper testified again and again, and made her feel, 
to use her own words, that she ’d like to see Mr. 
Daniel married. “I don’t want to give up house- 
keeping,” she said vehemently ; “ but I would like 
to see Mr. Daniel with such a wife as Miss Hope ; 
and what he means by living a bachelor, I don’t 
know.” 

My father, too, had felt a new interest in life while 
Hope Hillyer was under our roof; but she had gone, 
and we had to live on as before. 

“ Well, Stephen,” I said, “ you are getting strong 
again. Isn’t it time you thought of doing some- 
thing ? ” 

“That’s where the difficulty lies, Dan. I don’t 
feel I can do anything. Yet I promised her. Besides, 
I can’t remain here on your charity.” 

“ But you are going to remain here, Steve,” I said, 
“ and the friendship of our boyhood is going to con- 
tinue in a real, true way.” 


346 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


'' I ’ve thought it over again and again, old man, 
and every door seems closed to me.” 

“ Except one.” 

What is that ? ” 

You remember when we lived together in Batter- 
sea, you contemplated writing a novel, which you 
thought of calling ‘ Disillusionment.’ Can’t you write 
it now ? ” 

“ No,” he said decidedly ; “ what the world wants 
is a message of hope, not one of despair.” 

“ And you have no message of hope ? ” 

“ Don’t mock me, Dan. Can a poor thing like I, 
who can only inspire a feeling of pity for myself, a 
poor thing who has been crawling at the very bottom 
of the pit, give a message of hope ? ” 

‘‘ I was not thinking of the man you are, but the 
man you are going to be,” I said ; “ besides, Hope 
sent you a book.” 

“I will try, old man,” he said presently. 

.It would be painful to myself an'd wearisome to 
the reader if I were to try and record in detail all 
the struggles of Stephen during the months that fol- 
lowed. I could not help seeing that his old life had 
a strong grip on him, while it was evident that, try 
as he might, he could not shake himself free from 
his creed of despair altogether. Sometimes for days 
he seemed on the verge of giving himself over to 
his old habits. Six years of debauchery had shat- 
tered his strength, physically and morally. His 
craving for drink was sometimes terrible ; every fibre 
of his being cried out for stimulants, and it was piti- 
ful to watch him struggling against it. 

Once I thought the battle was entirely lost ; and 
if it had been, I should have been the means, with 
every good intention on my part, of his fall. It 
happened in this way. I had heard that his uncle 
Luke was in England, and I wrote to him to tell him 


I BID YOU hope: 


847 


of Stephen, and asking him to come and see us. I 
thought he might arouse some interest in Stephen's 
life, and make the time hang less heavily on his 
hands. 

Luke Edgcumbe came one afternoon when Stephen 
had gone for a walk on the common, to try, as he 
told me, to rid his brain of cobwebs, and to work out 
the idea of his novel. 

“ I heard the beggar had gone to the dogs,” said 
Luke, " and had ceased to trouble about him. I was 
disgusted with the attitude the young milksop as- 
sumed when at your old place in Battersea. I knew 
he ’d be going to the bad then. Your professedly 
conscientious men always do. He professed to be 
above the ways of the world, and then directly after 
became a swill-tub.” 

I gave him what I regarded as wholesome truth, 
telling him what I thought had made Stephen what 
he had been ; but Luke would have none of it. 

“ That ’s all a pack of bosh,” he replied ; “ your 
canting hypocrites always do turn out that way. 
And yet I always liked him ; and since he is going 
to reform, or has reformed, I am willing to do what 
I can for him. I have a house in town; let him 
come and live with me. Excuse me, Eoberts, but 
your Puritanism is enough to make an idiot of any 
one; let him come with me, arid he can then, in 
a reasonable way, get the best out of this dirty 
world.” 

“ Stephen can, of course, do what he will,” I re- 
plied ; “ but I do not think the life you suggest will 
be best for him.” 

Soon after Stephen returned, his uncle commenced 
talking in the old way. He ignored the past, and 
asked Stephen to cease moping, and come with him. 
I could see my friend was in one of his low moods. 
The dark circles under his eyes indicated that he was 


348 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


suffering terribly, and I could see that the prospect 
which Luke held out was like an incarnate devil 
tempting him. Since his illness he had touched no 
stimulants, and I knew that his safety lay in complete 
abstention from them. 

“ Uncle,” he said, “ I believe you mean to be kind 
to me.” 

“ If you ’d listened to me, and had n’t been a fool, 
you might have been in clover during all these years. 
I don’t profess to be a saint. Like one of your Bible 
heroes, I don’t believe in being over-sinful or over- 
righteous. Strike a middle line, I say. Eecognize 
what the world is, and then do the thing that pays 
best. You ’ve been a fool ; come with me and make 
life as pleasant as you can.” 

Uncle,” said Stephen, “ if you had said this to me 
a year ago, I ’d have said yes in a minute ; I ’d have 
lived with you, although the money which paid for 
everything were stolen, or obtained through the vilest 
fraud or iniquity ; but I ’m trying to do the straight 
thing.” 

“ Straight thing, bah ! ” said Luke. “ Look here, 
you ’re my nephew ; I promised your father I ’d do my 
best by you. Come now, I ’ll give you a good home, 
and a good time, at any rate until you pick up a bit. 
By the way, though, perhaps, ” — this with a sneer, — 
“ you ’ll be wanting to know if I paid my late cred- 
itors in full. Well, I haven’t. Still, I have a well- 
furnished house, a good table, a cellar full of good 
wines. Come, now.” 

My friend looked at me appealingly. The very 
mention of good wines intensified his craving. 

“ Steve, old man,” I said, “ had n’t you better stay 
here and do the work you have set out to do ? You 
know I am glad to have you.” 

“ You can do whatever work you like at my place, 
my lad,” said Luke, more kindly ; “ besides, I ’m a bit 


/ BID YOU hope: 


349 


lonely. I shall be glad to have you ; it will remind 
me of old days.” 

I saw Stephen was on the point of yielding, and I 
knew what kind of an influence Luke Edgcumbe 
would exert over him. I thought of one thing which 
I hoped might restrain him. 

“ What shall I say to Hope, if you go, Steve ? ” I 
said, looking at him full in the face. 

Immediately his eyes dropped. 

“ I will go and see you sometimes. Uncle Luke,” 
he said, “ if you will let me ; but I dare not go and 
live with you yet ; I dare not.” 

His face looked so drawn and haggard, and his 
eyes shone with such a strange light, that even Luke 
Edgcumbe did not press him further. 

After his uncle had gone, he gripped me tightly 
by the hand. “ If you let me go, Dan, I am a lost 
man. The one thing that tempted me was, to 
get away so that I could be without restraint. 
While I am with you, I feel I dare not be a beast, 
and I should be again if you did not hold me back. 
Besides, I promised — her, you know.” 

“ Steve,” I said, “ she sent you a book, a copy of 
the life of the one Perfect Strength, the one Perfect 
Pattern. Have you read it ? ” 

“ I am reading it.” 

^‘Well?” 

It means so much or so little. It means so much 
if it is true, that I hardly dare believe; if it is a 
sham, a lie — then ” 

“Steve,” I interrupted, “years ago your faith 
depended on a woman. She failed you. How 
believe in Him, if you can. It seems to me that 
Jesus Christ is the world’s hope, — in spite of the 
sneers of the times. Try, old man. As you know, 
I seldom talk about religion ; it is too sacred to be 
paraded ; but faith in Him has kept me in many a 


350 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


dark time. I am in darkness now, old man ; you 
know why. The woman I love seems to hold out 
her hand to another, one who is unworthy. I don’t 
know what to do, — except to hold His hand ; and 
that is strength to me.” 

We sat fora long time talking; then we prayed. 

Perhaps a sneer curls the lips of my critics as 
they read this. Let me ask them a question. Do 
they know anything that will help a poor, drink- sod- 
den, morally diseased man, to whom life has been a 
bitter mockery, more than this ? Will they give me 
some advice, whereby I could have better helped my 
friend, than by leading him to look up to One who I 
believe is the great universal Father ? 

I will look for their answer when I read the 
reviews of this history, and I will promise to weigh 
their words carefully. 


STRUGGLING UPWARD. 


351 


CHAPTER HI. 


STRUGGLING UPWARD. 


Our times are in His hand 
Who saith, “ A whole I planned. 

Youth shows but half : trust God ; see all, nor be afraid.” 


Robert Browning. 


ETER Luke Edgcumbe’s visit, Stephen worked 



very hard at his novel, — worked incessantly, 
worked with a dogged perseverance which made me 
fear for his health first, and afterwards for the 
quality of his work. I tried to remonstrate with 


him. 


‘‘ You a.re not strong yet, old man ; take it a little 
more easily. You Ve been through enough to kill 
many people, and this constant toil is telling on you.” 

“ It ’s medicine to me, Dan. If God ever answers 
a prayer. He ’s answering mine in this capacity for 
work which I ’ve had lately. My story has got hold 
of me at last, and when I ’m hard at it I forget my 
old craving, forget my old life. I feel as though a 
new and a better life were growing in me.” 

“ But working in that spirit means hardness of 
tone in the work you are doing; besides, a weary 
brain means weary work.” 

“ My brain seems to know no weariness when my 
pen is in my hand. Besides, my story is a dream, 
— a dream of life.” 

“ A pleasant one, I hope. A successful novel 
must have its humor.” 


352 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“ I think the end will be pleasant. It is n’t pleas- 
ant now ; it ’s as bitter as gall.” 

“ How is that, old man ? ” 

I ’m writing my owm past feelings ; I ’m living on 
memory ; I ’ni telling what is the logical issue of a 
life without faith and hope ; and it ’s a terrible busi- 
ness, Dan. I don’t think I am doing bad work. 
You used to tell me I had a good literary style, and 
it seems to have come back to me.” 

“ Are you working out the idea you had after we 
returned from Wales ? ” 

“ Yes, in a way. Mine is a novel with a purpose. 
I could n’t write without one just at present. I 
could n’t tell a story simply to amuse. I seem to be 
dipping my pen in my own heart’s blood. Yesterday 
and to-day I have been writing about my life in the 
City, — those years of hell, you know. The very writ- 
ing has made me hope in myself a bit, I loathe it so. 
By and by I think the man I write about will be 
disillusioned ; I don’t know yet, but T fancy he will 
become a child again : a child’s faith and a child’s 
heart will come back to him ; then he will see that 
there ’s good, after all.” 

That means that you are beginning to see the 
good ? ” 

“I can’t help it when I think of Hope. The 
world ’s a mystery, a big mystery ; but if God ’s at the 
back, it ’s different. After all, we don’t know much. 
In looking back, too, I can think of evidences of 
something holy, something divine, in the poor out- 
casts around Drury Lane. If there ’s a God, He 
has n’t finished with them yet, has He ? Our exist- 
ence here is but a fragment of life, — not a whole. 
The dross can be purged away, can’t it ? and the love 
may remain. I can’t say I believe it yet, but it ’s 
becoming a part of my dream.” 

“Then you are dealing with the dark phases of 
life?” 


STRUGGLING UPWARD. 


353 


“ Only to make the reader shudder at them, as I 
do. Besides, I will write nothing that need make a 
young girl blush ; there will be no prurient sugges- 
tions. I think I hn beginning to be saved, Dan, for 
I love purity again. But, for all that, I am trying to 
make people see things as they are. One need n’t 
wade through a lot of loathsome details to do that, 
and I am sure it ’s not the highest art.” 

“ And when will you finish ? ” 

“ If I can keep up as I ’in going on now, in another 
couple of months, I think.” 

“ And to whom will you take it ? ” 

“ I used to know a fellow who was reader for . 

I always thought him clever, and I think he ’ll read 
it fairly.” 

It was pleasant to me to see his eyes flash again, and 
the look of interest resting on his face. He was still 
pale, but the haggardness was becoming a thing of 
the past; the lines that always made me sad were 
fading away, and his bearing was becoming decided 
again, as it had been in the old days. 

“ I hope it will go,” he said ; “ then I shall be able 
to repay you.” 

I did not reply to this, but let him think I should 
expect remuneration for his long sojourn with me. I 
thought it would make him feel more independent, 
and would add to his motives for continuous labor. 

“ By the way,” I said at length, “ have you heard 
what has become of the woman who betrayed your 
trust ? ” 

“ Do you mean my wife ?” he said. 

“ If you still regard her so, yes.” 

“ She will always be my wife,” he said ; “ I can’t be 
unmarried through that affair in the Divorce Court.” 

“ But she ’s married to another man.” 

“ According to the laws of the country, yes ; but 
not according to anything true and liigh. If there ’s 

23 


354 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


a God, she ’s mine — yet, and will be while she lives. 
No, I Ve not heard from her ; I do not know where 
she lives. I ’ve inquired, though, and I hear she 
spends most of her time on the Continent.” 

“ Old Colonel Tempest is dead,” I said ; “ father 
heard from Witney to-day. He died insolvent.” 

“ Then she will be at the mercy of Hussey now ? ” 

“ Have you any love for her, Steve ? ” 

No ; and yet I am each day more and more feel- 
ing that our boy and girl marriage was the true 
marriage, and that all those after-events don’t nullify 
it. Eh, Dan, but the first month of our marriage life 
was heaven — yes, there must be real, true marriages, 
pure marriages. If she had been all I fancied ! ” 

I was wondering if you would care to go down to 
Witney — for the funeral. You might see her.” 

He hesitated a second. “ No, I ’d better not,” he 
replied ; ‘‘ the thought of seeing her arouses all the 
bitterness of my nature ; it makes me want to curse 
her for those — years. I am trying to think the best 
of her, to think of her as I thought she was in the 
old days. When you and I met — first, you know, 
after our years of parting — I felt so careless of life, 
so hardened against every thing, that I fancied I had 
no feeling towards her. Now I cannot help hating 
her for wrecking my life — - and yet she ’s my wife 
— and living under the sanction of a hideous 
mockery as the wife of Hussey. Perhaps she has 
children! Ugh! — Dan, let’s talk of something 
else. I cease to believe in virtue, in love, in light — 
in everything, when I think of her in that way.” 

As fortune would have it, the door-bell rang at 
that particular moment, and a minute later a servant 
entered, bearing a card with the name of Amos Collet 
printed on it. 

“ Amos Collet,” I said to Stephen, “ you remember 
him, don’t you ? ” 


STRUGGLING UPWARD. 


355 


“That text-quoting fellow — yes. He was sent to 
prison for five or six years, was n’t he ? ” 

“ Shall I let him come in here ? ” 

“ As fdr as I am concerned, yes.” 

Amos Collet was still smooth, although his prison 
life had left its marks on him. 

“ I should like to see your father. Dr. Eoberts,” he 
said, when he had taken a seat. I ought to say, too, 
that he was accompanied by another man, a fat, 
greasy individual, to whom he constantly referred as 
“ pastor.” 

“ My father is out at present,” I said ; “ I can’t say 
when he will be back.” 

“ I should like to see him very much,” he said. “ I 
have been told he is a religious lawyer. I myself 
practised for a few years, but I gave it up to do the 
Lord’s work.” 

“ Had you a good practice ? ” I asked. 

“ The children of this world are wiser in their gen- 
eration than the children of light,” he said senten- 
tiously. “ You see, I had a conscience.” 

“ But you had some connection with the law after 
you called oti me in Battersea some years ago,” I said ; 
“ and if I remember aright, you felt its whip rather 
keenly.” 

“ The ashes of the martyrs have always been the 
seed of the Church,” he replied, with an upward turn 
of his eyes. “ I was working for the Lord, and had 
snatched a young man as a brand from the burning, 
and the law was the devil’s instrument for being 
revenged on me. But I am not to be beaten. Dr. 
Eoberts. I am on the Lord’s work still.” 

“ Trying to snatch more brands from the burning ? ” 
asked Stephen. 

“Ah! I remember you, Mr. Edgcurnbe. You 
thought cruelly of me in those days, did n’t you ? But 
I forgive you, young man. I hear you have found 


356 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS, 


out the truth of my warnings, too ; I hope your suf- 
ferings have softened your heart. This young man, 
pastor, is a good subject for your ministrations.” 

The pastor looked at Stephen, then he took from 
his pocket a circular. 

“ Here you will find a summary of the views and 
doctrines of ‘ The Church of the Grace of God,’ ” he 
said solemnly. I, as pastor, expound them week by 
week.” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Collet, “ we called about this church. 
As you know. Dr. Eoberts, I was a member of the 
‘ Brethren,’ but I could n’t agree with them doctri- 
nally. They began to make their faith too easy ; 
they admitted people too easy ; in short, they were 
too — too broad for me; so the pastor and I have 
started a new church. The great thing London wants 
is sound doctrine, and we are going to give it. When 
doctrine is sound, London will be converted in a day. 
Isa. Iviii. 2. The truth is, the churches want Grace 
and the Word. We have come to ask you to join us. 
You are a wealthy man. Dr. Eoberts ; what shall I 
put you down for ? ” 

“ What will the money be expended on ? ” I asked. 

“ The extension of tlie doctrines of the Church of 
the Grace of God,” said the pastor, solemnly. “ I am 
the ministerial agent, and Brother Collet is the lay 
agent. We want to print ten thousand tracts, and we 
want to have meetings all over Loudon. Then, if 
London will not be saved, we shall be free of London’s 
blood. Young man,” turning to Stephen, “ I call on 
you to give your heart to God, and to join our 
church. Eev. iii. 1. I only speak according to the 
Word.” 

It was some time before we could get rid of these 
worthies ; and when at length we did so, I found that 
their visit, in spite of the ludicrousness of the whole 
affair, had made Stephen hard and bitter again. 


STRUGGLING UPWARD. 


857 


“ I find it almost impossible to believe in religion 
when I think of such fellows,” he said. 

I wonder how many young people, struggling to 
find a sure anchor in life, have had their little faith 
wrecked by the advocates of many of the churches ? 

Stephen went on with his work the next day, how- 
ever, and about two mouths later he finished his 
novel. 

“ Will you read it, Dan ?” he said. “ I should like 
your opinion before I submit it to a publisher.” 

I consented with eagerness. I wondered often if 
this story, on which he was spending so much time, 
would prove a failure and a disappointment, and I 
almost trembled at the issues. The book was in many 
respects his hope. He believed it to be God’s answer 
to his prayer. If it were a failure, then I feared the 
consequences. It would seem as though his first 
effort to struggle back to a better life were a vain 
mockery. At least, so I thought, but I was mistaken. 
I found that his faith rested on something surer than 
outward success. 

" Steve,” I said to him, suppose this work of yours 
is voted a failure ? ” 

“ Most likely it will be,” he said ; “ but it will not 
be a failure to me. It will have been to me a bridge 
across an awful gulf. Are you fearing for it, Dan ? ” 

“Books and their successes are very curious,” I 
said, “ and I don’t want you to build too much on 
this.” 

“ Don’t fear, Dan. It will be an awful blow if it 
fails; but I can never drift back again, — at least, I 
think not. Anyhow, I can’t while hope lives in me.” 

I took his novel to bed with me one night, and 
read it through with great interest. Its great feature 
was its intensity. I sometimes found myself reading 
with set teeth, and it carried me onward as with 
a flood. He entitled the volume, — ‘‘ Visions : A 


358 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


Novel; ” and divided it as follows : — First, A Vision 
of Ignorance ; Second, A Vision of Hell ; Third, A 
Vision of Heaven. The most powerful portion of 
the book was undoubtedly that which he called “ A 
Vision of Hell.” In it he painted certain phases of 
life in lurid colors. He showed, as I had never seen 
shown before, the ghastly nakedness, the bitter mock- 
ery, the cruel hollowness, of a great deal that is so 
much sought after. All the bitterness of his soul 
seemed poured out here. He laid bare the mockery 
of much so-called religious life, of church-going, of 
marriage, and of the real belief entertained with 
regard to life’s successes and virtues. 

Had I closed the book at the end of this second 
part, I should have said, “ This earth is a hell. The 
pessimists are right ! ” When I read the third part, 
the vision of Heaven, I was moved by the pathos of 
the circumstances. This vision was not clear. I could 
see the struggle of my friend’s life. I could see the 
forces at work within him which led him to try and 
see the soul of goodness in things evil. I could see 
him trying to catch a ray of the sun which was hid- 
den by the clouds. His writing was not jubilant; 
there was no great conviction, but there was hope. He 
described the blackness of night with far greater 
power than he told of the brightness of day. Nay, 
there was no day in the book ; it was only the first 
streak of dawn ; but it was dawn. I could almost see 
the red disk of the sun, and it was morning. 

In many respects the novel was a failure — as a 
work of art. There was little or no humor ; he al- 
lowed the reader no time to rest. The scenery was 
always rugged, wild ; the wild winds blew continu- 
ously. There were no restful scenes, and the laugh- 
ter of children was seldom heard. And yet it was 
work of immense power. It was written by an earn- 
est man, — and it was real. 


STRUGGLING UPWARD. 


359 


When I came down the following morning, I found 
that Stephen was suffering from a great reaction. He 
had finished his work, he was tired, and he had noth- 
ing to occupy him. He had dreamed his dream, he 
had described his visions, and, as he told me, hell was 
real, but heaven was only a shadow. He should not 
take it to a publisher, he said ; he would tell no lies, 
he was not bad enough for that. If he were to take 
only the first two parts, it would be a true book ; but 
he could n’t send it out to the world in that way. The 
novel then would only be the description of a ghastly 
cancer ; it would only tell of life as an incurable 
malady. It would be a sin to ask people to read such 
a production. If the last part were true, it would be 
different. 

“ But was n’t your vision of heaven true to you 
when you wrote it ? ” I asked. 

“ Yes, but T was buoyed up at the time. I was 
excited. On calm consideration, it is n’t right, 
Dan.” 

“ Steve,” I said, “ this is because you are suffering 
from over-work, and because you have forgotten God. 
Tliat book must go to the publishers, if I take it my- 
self. Besides, look here,” I continued, as I opened the 
letters that lay on the table before me, “ your nurse 
is coming to-day at noon. You must have a talk witli 
her. Can you think of her life, and not believe in 
your vision of heaven ? ” 

His eyes brightened. “ Perhaps you are right, Dan ; 
yes, you must be ; but I have seen so much of hell 
that the sight has blinded my eyes so that heaven is 
often hid from me.” 

“ Still you hope,” I said, “ and Hope is coming.” 

" Are you going to tell her about this novel ? ” he 
asked hesitatingly. 

“ Certainly,” I said ; “ and you must ask her to read 
it.” 


360 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“ Must I ? ” he said ; he was in one of his vacillat- 
ing moods, which were becoming rarer as his strength 
came back. “ Well, if she thinks it worth while, I’ll 
take it to a publisher. 

I hurried through my morning calls as rapidly as 
possible, and when I got back, Hope Hillyer had ar- 
rived. I found her chatting gayly with Stephen, who 
had brightened considerably under her influence. 

“ I ’ve called for two reasons. Dr. Eoberts,’' she said : 
“ the first is on business, in connection with my work ; 
the other is to tell you that Miss Naomi Eeviere has 
asked me to go down to Devonshire to spend my 
holidays with her. You see the summer is nearly 
gone, and I Ve had no rest yet, and I feel the need 
of it.” 

“ I did not know you were acquainted wdth Miss 
' Eeviere,” I said, somewhat stammeringly. 

“ Oh, yes, I know her well. She has visited our 
Home, and her uncle is one of the most liberal sub- 
scribers we have.” 

“ Do I know her uncle ? ” I asked. 

“ I don’t know. You may. His name is Gray, — 
Edward Gray, head of the house of Gray Brothers.” 

“ Oh, yes,” I replied, “ and I know his son too, who 
promises to be as great a philanthropist as his father, 
— Walter Gray. Do you know him ? ” 

A flush mounted her face, a flush which both 
Stephen and I saw plainly. ‘‘ Yes, I know him,” she 
replied ; and immediately changed the conversation. 

“ Has my friend told you about his novel ? ” I asked 
after a while. 

“ Oh, yes ; I ’ve got it. I ’m going to read it at 
once,” she replied. 

“ Do you know that it depends on your verdict as 
to whether he takes it to a publisher ? ” 

“ Yes, he has told me that. I am sure it will be a 
great book.” 


STRUGGLING UPWARD. 361 

She said this quietly, aud in an almost reverential 
tone, I thought. 

“ You will let us know how you get on in Devon- 
shire ? ” I said. 

She looked at me earnestly for a minute, then 
she said : “ You look as though you want a rest. 
Dr. Koberts, nearly as much as Mr. Edgcumbe ; and 
the air of Ilfracombe is very good.” 

After she had left, it seemed as though a cloud 
had hidden the sun, and both of us were silent for a 
time ; then Stephen broke out huskily, — 

“ Dan, I believe in heaven ; I can’t help believing 
when I see her. But it ’s not for me, old man, it ’s 
not for me.” 


362 


ALL MEN ABE LIARS. 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE CURSE OF THE PAST. 

God pity them both ! and pity us all 
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall, 

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, 

The saddest are these : “ It might have been ! ” 

Whittier. 

T hree days later, Hope Hilly er sent back 
Stephen’s MS. witli a letter : — 

I have read your story,” it ran, “and I do not like 
it — enough. Perhaps, though, it is only a preparatory 
•work, and some day you will finish it. You have n’t 
seen a vision of heaven yet, and you did n’t see any 
heaven in your vision of hell. That was wrong. I have 
seen heaven in hells worse than those you described. 
Love is heaven, so is kindness, and sacrifice, and forgive- 
ness. I’ve seen all that around Drury Lane. You 
described the mockery, the hollowness, of much of the 
religious and social life ; you told in terrible words the 
utter heartlessness of much of the social movements. 
Your vision is only partly true. There is good in the 
churches, and there are pure homes and noble business 
men. Some day you will see this, and then your visions 
will be of a different nature. 

“ But you must try and get it published. It is a great 
book, but not great enough to be worthy of what the 
writer will be. The man who took a homeless, persecuted 
waif, and inspired her with hope, will write a greater book 
than this by and by. It pulls down more than it builds 
up, but it is needed. Forgive me for what I have 


THE CURSE OF THE PAST. 


363 


written ; your novel was one of the most thrilling, lurid 
word-pictures I have ever read, but it is the book you 
have written, not the book you will write when your sun 
rises.” 

Stephen’s eyes flashed. “ My vision of heaven is 
real, Dan,” he cried. “ I know it is faint and un- 
satisfactory ; but it is true, and it suggests more than 
it tells. I ’m going to the City this morning.” 

He made his way to one of the principal publish- 
ing houses, and asked to see the man he knew years 
before, George Kent by name. 

George Kent was a literary man in the strictest 
sense of the word. He was a worshipper of art. 
Everything that interfered with art must be got rid 
of. He wrote reviews for some of tlie leading liter- 
ary papers, and he sneered at the novel with a pur- 
pose ; but art, no matter if it were dirty, no matter 
if it were unfit to place in the hands of a young girl, 
that was to him the god to fall down and worship. 

He looked up suspiciously as Stephen entered tlie 
room, and scanned him from head to foot. Evidently 
my friend’s appearance recommended him, for he 
cordially invited him to take a seat. 

“ It is years since I saw you — and I heard that 
you were — off it.” 

“ Yes, it is years since we met. I ’ve been in some 
curious places since we last saw each other. But 
I ’m come back to life again. I ’ve written a novel, 
Kent.” 

“ Give up that idea ; the game ^s not worth the 
candle. Look here” — and he pointed to a great 
heap of papers — “ all this is rejected MS.” 

“ Yes, I dare say you have a lot of rubbish to get 
through ; but I had an idea you ’d look 'through any- 
thing I might write.” 

“ Certainly, my dear boy, — yes, I ’ll look at it. 


864 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


Leave it with the firm in the ordinary way. What 
is it about ? ” 

Stephen told him. 

“ Very good idea. With artistic treatment, such a 
subject might be made to tell. You’ve introduced 
no moral claptrap, I hope.” 

“ You ’ll be the best judge when you ’ve read it. 
But can you let me know soon ? I don’t want to 
wait three months.” 

“ Yes ; I ’ll let you know in a day or two. You ’ll 
excuse me now ; I’m very busy.” 

Three days later Stephen received a letter from 
Kent. Come up and see me — if you can, at 
once,” he wrote ; “ I want to talk with you about 
■your novel. You have the making of something 
good in it.” 

When Stephen entered George Kent’s office the 
second time, he found that gentleman far more cour- 
teous and desirous to talk. 

“ I did n’t think you had it in you, Edgcumbe,” he 
said. “ If you will recast certain parts of your story, 
cut away one part of it, and tone down some of 
your statements, you ’ve got sometliing that ’ll cause 
a stir.” 

“Let’s go into details a little,” replied Stephen. 

“Very good. Well, then, your work is not artistic. 
You’ve been writing a sermon, and not a novel. 
What have you to do with copy-book morality ? It ’s 
not 'the author’s business to try and make immorality 
repulsive ; it is for him to describe it and leave it. 
You ’ve told of the blackness, the misery of what is 
called sin, but you haven’t told of its joys, its 
pleasures. That kind of thing will not take in 
circulating libraries. You must recast two or 
three chapters on your vision of hell, and you ’ve 
done something that will be talked about. Then 
you must finish at the proper ending of the book. 


THE CURSE OF THE PAST. 


365 


Your vision of heaven is opposed to every canon 
of art.” 

“ Then you think the book should end with hell ? ” 

“ Yes, for artistic purposes. At the end of your 
second vision you have a fine dramatic scene. You 
leave a gloomy impression on the reader. Your 
villain does n’t get killed, and your hero does n’t live 
happy ever afterward. Of course that game is played 
out now. Only people of the old school work on 
those lines, and they are, many of them, far from 
artistic. But you have wanted to tag a moral on 
: to your story ; you have wanted to end it well ; in 
; short, you have made it a novel with a purpose, — 
I the most detestable thing under heaven, — and thus 
i spoilt good work.” 

I “ Then a novel should not have a purpose ? ” 
i “ Certainly not.” 

“ What should it have, then ? ” 

“ It should be artistic.” 

“Would you call Dickens artistic?” 

“ Oh, no. In many cases he was clumsy. Of 
course, Dickens had his own style ; but for an artist, 
now, commend me to Zola. But, to return to this 
novel of yours, you absolutely must omit the last 
part. It would be suicidal to keep it in.” 

“ But, Kent, I should n’t have written the book but 
for the last part. I dare not let the book go out into 
the world without it. God knows there ’s pessimism 
enough in life without contributing my share to it. 
Why tell people there ’s sin and hell, that every- 
body ’s bad, and that goodness is a vain dream ? If 
a purpose makes a novel a failure, mine ’s a failure. 
And if it can’t go with its purpose, it Shall not go at 
all. I tell you, Kent, I ’ve written it with my own 
heart’s blood, and I could n’t tell of hell without 
trying to tell of heaven too.” 

“But art demands ” 


366 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“Let art demand. It was my work to tell my 
dream as I dreamed. I have been damned through 
believing only in the bad ; and if there has been one 
bit of salvation wrought in my life, it has been 
wrought by a glimmer of hope, and faith in goodness. 
Man, I should be untrue to the one little saving 
force in my life if I cut that out, orjf I modified 
what you suggeat.” 

Kent sighed. “ I am sorry, Edgcumbe. Your 
sacrificing art to purpose like this seems defiling the 
sacred for a fad. I thought better of you — I did, 
indeed.” 

“ Defiling the sacred for a fad ? Nay, man. Kent, 
you know something of my history, but not all. I 
know, too, that many of you fellows sneer at morality 
as an old woman’s foible. Well, I don’t pretend to 
be any better than the rest of you ; nay, I ’m not as 
good, perhaps. But I Ve got as far as this : I loathe 
myself as I have been, and my hope is, that I may 
be better some day. God knows I’ve nothing to 
boast about, but ” 

“ Come, now, I want no sermonizing. I ’m no saint, 
but I hope I am a disciple of art. Let ’s have art.” 

“And is it art to leave a picture unfinished ? Is it 
art to paint only one side of life ? Is it art to see 
only the ugly ? Is it art to see only sewers and gut- 
ters, and never see the green fields ? There, Kent, if 
you can’t recommend your publishers to take the 
story without your suggested mutilations, then I ’ll 
take it somewhere else. Thanks for your kindness, 
old fellow, but I couldn’t do what you suggest. 
It means so much to me, more than you can 
think.” 

“ Of course I ’ve heard about your experiences ; I 
saw an account of them in the papers. I don’t know 
as to the rights of the matter, and, after all, marriage 
is simply a matter of arrangement ; but I should n’t 


THE CURSE OF THE PAST. 


367 


have thought you’d have bothered. Still, I don’t 
say we won’t take the book, but I must recommend 
that it be laid before another reader first.” 

And so the matter was arranged, and Stephen left 
the publishing house with a strange feeling at heart. 
It seemed as though even his friends were leagued 
to destroy the only force that was working out liis 
salvation. 

Why have I described this episode ? Possibly it 
may not have much interest for the reader ; and yet 
I think I have revealed something of my friend’s 
real life by telling it. 

A week later the book was accepted, and orders 
were given for it to be printed at once, so as to be 
ready for the late autumn season, the publishers, with 
great generosity, sending on a check in part payment. 
The sum was not great, but to Stephen it was the 
promise of independence. 

“ And now, Steve,” I said, let ’s go for a holiday. 
You ’ve been overworking yourself, and you need a 
rest.” 

“ But I want to get this thing through the press 
first, Dan.” 

“ You can as well do that by the seaside as here.” 

‘‘ But where can we go ? ” 

‘‘ To Ilfracombe.” 

He looked at me eagerly. “ When shall we start, 
old man ? ” 

The day after to-morrow.” 

"‘Good; but why not to-morrow ?” 

I have not wearied the reader with my own 
troubles and fears in telling about my friend. Not, 
however, because I did not feel much, fear much, or 
hope much, but because my story is of Stephen Edg- 
cumbe, and not of Daniel Eoberts. Still, tliose 
months in which my friend was struggling and fall- 


368 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


ing, hoping and despairing, were for me fraught with 
intense anxiety^ For I learnt to think of and love 
Naomi more and more each day. And yet I was 
constantly haunted with the news I had heard. She 
had promised, so I was told on good authority, to he 
the wife of a man who was in every way unworthy 
of her. Still, wdiat right had I to judge her actions ; 
and, if she loved him, what could I do ? In spite 
of this, however, I could not help hoping. I could 
not believe that she could give her life to a man 
whose every action betrayed his worthlessness, and 
whose pretended religiosity carried the impress of 
sham. But then, love went by opposites ; and I had 
known people altogether unfitted for each other, and 
altogether unworthy of each other, linked together 
for life. 

It was not without a struggle that I decided to go 
to Ilfracombe. I felt I had no right ; besides, I 
hoped to be brought into contact with a girl who, 
humanly speaking, had become the light of my life, 
and would thus fan to a greater flame a seemingly 
hopeless love. Still, I went. I remembered Hope 
Hillyer’s words when we had parted, and I felt sure 
she had discovered my secret. 

The visiting season was over at Ilfracombe when 
we arrived, for which I was very glad. I am any- 
thing but fond of the ordinary English watering- 
place, with its promenade, its piers, its noise, and its 
crowds. The weather, however, was delightful, and 
the rough coast, the fine scenery in the near dis- 
tance, and fresh pure air were truly welcome, after 
long months of work and anxiety. 

We had no sooner arrived than I bought a paper 
containing the list of visitors, and eagerly scanned it 
in the hope of finding the name of Reviere. In vain, 
however. I had expected that Hope Hillyer would 
have written telling me how she fared, as I had 


THE CURSE OF THE PAST. 


369 


asked her to do; but no letter had come from her. 
Still, I had no doubt but that she was with Miss 
Eeviere, and it was because of this we had chosen 
Ilfracombe. I saw Stephen scanning the list of 
names, too, and I noted that he was very silent for 
some minutes after he laid down the paper. 

After dinner we walked out together. The day- 
light was fast departing, but we could see the rolling 
waves and the outline of the coast. We walked 
northward, the roar of the surf sounding in our ears. 

“ After six years of London this is Paradise, Dan,” 
said Stephen. 

What, have you not left London for six years ? ” 

Never since we were in Wales together. You 
remember.” 

I remember.” 

“ I shudder at almost everything that has happened 
since then, Dan.” 

“Yes?” 

“It’s a great black mystery, is this life, Dan. 
Those old men who wrote the Bible saw the truth, 
though. ‘ He that soweth to the flesh shall of the 
flesh reap corruption ; ’ that ’s true enough, is n’t 
it ? ” 

I was silent. 

“ I realize it, anyhow,” he went on ; “ and yet God 
seems to laugh at men’s conceptions of His laws.” 

“ How ? ” 

“ Why, think. You remember how we found — 
Hope, you know. A little thing they called Shrimp. 
A child of shame. She had no father according to 
the world’s ideas, and her mother, by the dictates 
of the world, was an outcast ; and yet it was through 
her, a child of sin, that I was led first of all to 
believe in purity. I am hoping, old man, that 
there’s more real goodness among the class from 
which she springs than the world credits it with.” 

24 


370 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“ I am sure of it.” 

Neither of us spoke for some time after this, but 
presently he broke out suddenly, — 

“Everything reproaches me, everything upbraids 
me — everything.” 

I tried to make him explain, but he ’would not 
speak again ; and by and by, when we went to bed, 
he said good-night with a bitter sigh. 

The next afternoon we walked out together again ; 
I, sad at heart because, in spite of all my endeavors, 
I could not discover whether Naomi Eeviere had 
leh Ilfracombe or not, and because I was haunted 
with fears concerning her. We had not gone more 
than a mile away from the town, however, before my 
heart gave a great throb, for coming towards us we 
saw the woman I was longing to see, while Hope 
Hillyer walked by her side. 

In spite of my excitement, I could not help noting 
the effect of the meeting upon Stephen. It was 
really the first time he had come into contact with 
the society of the outer world since he had begun to 
rise. It was true he had met and talked with Hope, 
but that somehow was different. There was a pain- 
ful flush upon his face, and his eyes were averted, 
as though he were afraid. He was wondering, so he 
told me afterwards, if Hope had related his history 
to Naomi, and the thought of her having done so 
made the bright day as black as night. 

But Naomi spoke to him kindly, far more kindly, 
I thought, than she spoke to me ; and yet, as we 
walked away together, it fell out that Hope dropped 
into the rear with Stephen, while I found myself by 
the side of the woman I loved. 

I have never been able to talk fluently with women. 
No one can be more ill at ease than I when society 
small-talk is the order of the day ; while as a conver- 
sationalist, at the best of times I was always at a 


THE CURSE OF THE PAST. 


371 


discount. But this afternoon I was unable for a 
time to speak a word. And yet I wanted to tell her 
so much, wanted to ask her so much. 

“ You are not well ? ” she said at length. 

“ I 'm afraid I ^m a bit run down,” I stammered ; 
“ that ^s why I came here for a rest, I suppose. I 
hunted the visitors’ list to find your name. Miss 
Eeviere, but I could not see it. Why ? ” 

I said this stammeringly, blushing like a schoolboy 
all the time. 

“I wouldn’t have it put on any list,” she said; 
“ besides, we are not staying in the town, but at a 
farm-house. It is so much better, so much quieter 
than in the town.” 

“ You have been staying here a good while ? ” 

“Yes; mamma was not strong. The visit has 
done her such a lot of good. What led you to come 
here ? ” 

“ You,” I said, before I had time to think. 

I saw a flush rise on her face, and I thought a look 
of anger flashed from her eyes. 

“ Excuse me, I ’m afraid I ’m not well, and I ’ve 
said what I did n’t mean ; that is — ” and I stopped, 
feeling that I was making a fearful bungle. 

“ Thank you. Dr. Eoberts,” she said a little stiffly, 
I thought ; “ of course I know you did n’t come be- 
cause I was here. But people say Ilfracombe is 
healthy.” 

“ Oh, excuse me,” I stammered, “ I am getting con- 
fused. I did n’t mean that, that ” I looked 

around me, as if beseeching help ; but Stephen and 
Hope were some distance away, and almost hidden 
from us ; then I went on blundering wildly, “ Miss 
Eeviere, Naomi, is it true you are engaged to 
Polden ? ” 

“Dr. Eoberts ! ” she said, as if in astonishment. 

I went on in the same confused way, feeling all 


372 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


the time that I was making an egregious ass of my- 
self, yet not knowing what to do; then, while my 
heart thumped madly against my ribs, I made a 
great resolve, 

“ Miss Eeviere,” I said, “ you must forgive me 
talking like this. I wonder at my audacity. I 
never thought I should be able to dare to say what 
I am going to say. I did come here because I heard 
you were here. I — I could not help it. You — 
you see, I ’ve been living in the hopes that — that 

Oh, forgive me, Naomi, but I love you like 

my own life.” 

It was out now. What I was afraid I should 
never dare to say, I had told in the most blunt way. 

“ You ’ll forgive me telling you so abruptly,” I 
went on stammering ; “ but somehow I could n’t help 
it; besides, I was afraid that — you know that peo- 
ple said — that is, about you and Polden — Oh, w'on’t 
you give me a little hope ? You are not engaged to 
Polden, are you ? ” 

“ How dare you ? ” she cried ; and her eyes flashed 
fire. “ How dare you hint at such a thing ? What 
have I done that you should come here to insult me ? ” 

Her tone of voice angered me. After all, I had 
done nothing wrong. I had offered her an honest 
man’s love. Why, then, should she speak of my 
insulting her ? 

“ I beg your pardon. Miss Eeviere,” I said quietly. 
“ I did not mean to insult you ; I did not think the 
offer of the greatest thing I could offer would do 
that. Shall we return to your friend ? ” 

Then I saw how mistaken I had been. 

No, no,” she cried ; I meant how dare you think 
I would engage myself to such a man as — him 

— you speak about — when Oh, don’t be 

angry with me. I couldn’t bear it! Besides, you 
said ” 


THE CURSE OF THE PAST. 


373 


The next moment, Naomi Eeviere was sobbing on 
my breast, and her tears were not tears of sorrow. 

“I — I never thought I should — tell you — like 
this,” she sobbed presently ; “I — I, oh, what will 
you think of me ? ” 

I need n’t tell any more. We stayed long together, 
talking of a thousand things. We wandered over hill 
and dale, forgetting Stephen and Hope, supremely 
happy in the love we had each revealed to the other. 

Late that night I told Stephen what had happened. 

“ And she has promised to be your wife, Dan ? ” 
Yes, old friend ; I ’m the happiest man in tlie 
world.” 

We were together in his bedroom, and he was sit- 
ting resting his arm on a table. He was silent for a 
time ; then I saw that his whole frame was shaking 
with great sobs. 

“ What’s the matter, Steve ? We sha’n’t be less 
to each other,” I cried. 

“No, no, Dan, it isn’t that; and I am glad — so 
glad, because of your happiness, so glad. But, Dan, 
there ’s no hope for me. God may forgive me, and I 
may become — a man in time ; but I — I — but I 
can never feel what you feel. No pure woman can 
ever lay her head on my breast ; no pure woman’s 
lips can ever touch mine. I ’m a polluted thing, 
Dan, although I ’m young ; why, I should scarcely 
have reached my prime yet. But there ’s no hope 
for me. I must drag out my life alone, always alone, 
la — a polluted leper; a suicide; how can I ever 
hope to — to win a pure girl’s love ; how can any 
woman, knowing my past, be to me — a wife ?” 

He started up, his form trembling, his eyes flashing. 

“ Oh, curse the men that made me believe in a 
creed of despair ; curse the woman that wrecked my 
life, robbed me of hope, of love, of moral purpose, and 


374 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


made me what I have been ! Oh, had those men 
taught me to believe in God, in goodness, had they 
taught me to look for purity instead of filth, I might, 
in spite of my wife’s unfaithfulness, ay, I believe I 
should have been saved from becoming the thing I 
have been ! But they kept on ringing the death- 
knell in my ears, and now there is no hope — can be 
none ! ” 

Then I felt, as I had never felt before, the out- 
come of a creed of despair. 

I tried to comfort him as well as I could, — tried 
to tell him that he was painting the future darker 
than it would be ; but he paid no heed to my words. 
He wandered to and fro about the room in misery, 
his eyes burning with a dull red light. 

“But surely, Steve, my happiness does not give 
you pain, my joy ” 

“ It is n’t that, Dan, it is n’t that — only in this 
way : while you have told the story of your love, and 
discovered that it has been returned, I have dis- 
covered that some of my old life has come back ; I 
have found out the secret of my heart. I, who 
thought I could never love again, love the girl who 
saved me, — I love Hope Hillyer !” 


HOPES AND FEARS. 


375 


CHAPTER V. 

HOPES AND FEARS. 


Of all the Virtues, Hope is the most distinctively Christian. 

John Ruskin. 

I SLEPT very little that night. The fact of my 
own joy would have destroyed the possibility of 
much sleep, had not the revelation of Stephen’s love 
given me so much food for thought. It seemed hard 
that in the midst of my own supreme happiness the 
sorrow of my friend should so press upon me ; and 
yet there was nothing unreasonable about his love. 
What more natural than that he should be led to 
think fondly of the woman who had brought him 
back to life, not only in the literal, but in the truer, 
deeper sense ? Nay, more ; why should he not love 
her — marry her ? He had married, years before, 
and his wife had acted unworthily. They were now 
no longer legally man and wife. What was there 
to hinder him, Stephen Edgcumbe, from making 
Hope his ? 

This question opened up many problems. The 
remembrance of his misery, as he said that no pure 
woman could lay her head on his breast, caused a 
score of thoughts to flash through my mind. And so, 
although when thinking of my own prospects I was 
supremely happy, I could not help being sad when I 
thought of my friend. 

The following morning I went to meet Naomi 
among the hills, but he would not come with me. 


376 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


He dared not, he said. He must fight his battle 
alone. Not that he was going to give in ; the old 
past should he past forever. He loathed the old life 
too much to return to it ; and although his love for 
Hope could never be returned, he would not be un- 
true to it. Besides, Hope would not expect to see 
him ; he was sure of that. 

I am afraid I thought little of Stephen dgring the 
next few hours. What wonder ? For months I had 
despaired of winning the woman I loved, and then 
happiness had come back to me in a moment. It 
was impossible for me to think sad thoughts that 
morning ; impossible for me to take gloomy, cynical 
views of life. How could I when I had won the love 
of a young girl whose every look declared her pure ? 
I will not try and tell of the things we talked about, 
of the explanations that were made, of the castles 
we reared, of the plans we made. They were only 
for us, not for others. The sun shone for us, the 
green fields were for us, the sea sung songs of hope 
for us, while the birds that still chirped on the tree- 
branches told each other of our love. 

We arranged that I should see her mother that 
very afternoon, and ask her for her daughter’s hand. 
Ah, that one morning repaid me for all the weary 
months of watching and waiting. Indeed, they be- 
came as nothing. When we enter into a great joy, 
we forget the sorrows that are past. 

It was only when we parted at the farm gate that 
morning that I remembered to ask for Hope ; and then 
I saw that Naomi looked thoughtful. 

“ She received a letter this morning — Dan.” She 
said the last word hesitatingly, and with a blush. 
But I need n’t have told that ; everybody who has 
wooed and won a young girl knows all about it, and 
every young girl who has been wooed and won knows 
too. Still, it ’s natural for me to write about it, for I 


HOPES AND FEARS. 


377 


love to think of that happy morning, the promise of 
many, many others. 

“ Well, there ’s nothing strange in her receiving a 
letter, is there? Still, I hope it’s not to tell her to 
return to her work yet.” 

“No; it’s not that — far more important. It is 
from my cousin, Walter Gray. He has made her an 
offer of marriage.” 

“ What, Hope ? ” 

“ Yes. He is coming this afternoon.” 

“ She ’s a very noble girl,” I replied, wondering 
how the news would affect Stephen. “ Does the family 
know of her history, her antecedents ? ” 

“Yes. It was some time, I believe, before Walter 
could win his parents’ consent — that is, to be allowed 
to ask her to be his wife. My mother’s family are 
proud — she — she — that is, mother did n’t at first 
like her coming down here. For Hope has never 
made a secret of her past. However, Walter did n’t 
mind, and has at length persuaded his father and 
mother. My mother got a letter from my uncle this 
morning.” 

“ And do you know what Hope’s feelings are ? ” 

“ No ; we have n’t talked much about such things. 
Anyhow, she ’s never told me. I think she ’ll accept 
him, though. I know she admires him very much, 
and I know his letter affected her very much this 
morning. Besides, he has been paying her marked 
attention for a long time.” 

“ Well, she ’s worthy of the best man that ever 
lived,” I remarked, still thinking of my friend. Poor 
Stephen ! it seemed as if the fates were against him, 
and that he would have to learn to crush the love 
that had newly sprung into his heart. It was not 
for him to love a woman who would soon be the 
wife of another man. 

I did not tell him the news I had heard when I 


378 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


returned to the hotel. I dared not. The marks of 
suffering were too plainly written on his face for me 
to intensify the pain he felt. And yet might I not 
as well have told him at once ? 

He tried to be cheerful with me, tried to laugh 
at my past fears, and pretended to tease me for leav- 
ing the noble band of bachelors ; but I saw that his 
mirth was only seeming. 

“ By the way,” he said at length, “ how did the 
news get abroad that she was engaged to Polden ? ” 
I think he circulated it himself,” I replied. “ It 
is true he asked Mrs. Eeviere for permission to pay 
attention to Naomi ; and it is also true that that 
lady gave her consent. She seems to think very 
highly of him. He impressed her much with his 
piety, his broad theological views, and his prospects.” 

Stephen shrugged his shoulders. 

“You still feel bitterly towards him, Steve ? ” 

“ I don’t know. I hardly think so. He was but 
the tool in the hands of others, and had he failed to 
do what they wanted, some other means would have 
been discovered. Nay, Dan, I will not blame cir- 
cumstances any more than I can help. Perhaps — 
well, by and by the sun may shine again, who 
knows ? ” 

The news I had received that morning kept me 
from replying ; knowing what I did, his prospects 
looked very dark. 

“ I will walk a little way with you this afternoon,” 
he said presently, “ and then I will come back and 
correct some of the proofs that have just come. It 
will seem strange to see my name on the titlepage 
of a book.” 

We went out together ; the sky had become over- 
cast, and threatened rain ; but Stephen paid no heed 
to the weather. His eyes were dull, and there was 
a wistful look in them. We passed several groups 


HOPES AND FEARS. 


379 


of people, but he did not notice them, until by and 
by, when we had got away from the houses, we saw 
a man and a woman coming towards us. I could see 
from the distance that the woman was tall and finely 
formed, while the man was insignificant to look at, 
and had a shambling gait. 

“ Look ! ” said Stephen, in a hoarse whisper. 
“Don’t you know who they are?” 

“ No ; who are they ? ” 

He did not speak, and a minute later we passed 
them. Then I saw that the man was Kalph Hussey, 
while the woman was she whom Stephen had once 
called his wife. 

Our eyes met, but we did not speak. The mutual 
recognition was plain enough, however, and I shall 
never forget the expression on the face of Hussey, or 
the look that shone from the woman’s eyes. I saw, 
too, that she had changed much since the time I 
had last seen her. She had developed into a large 
woman, while her face looked florid and, I thought, 
coarse. His face, too, was bloated, and there was 
no happiness expressed on it. 

“ You saw, you know ! ” gasped Stephen. 

“ Yes, I saw,” I replied. 

“ They recognized us. You saw that, too ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ And she lives with him as his wife ? ” 

“ Evidently.” 

We walked together for some minutes in silence ; 
then he said, — 

“ I must get away alone somewhere, Dan. It all 
comes back again. Is it possible I ever loved that 
woman ? ” 

I watched him while he strode away towards the 
sea. I could not help being sad, and yet I felt hope- 
ful in spite of everything. He did not walk like a 
conquered man. There was firmness in his tread. 


380 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


and he carried his head high, as though he meant to 
meet the future bravely. Then I knew that Hope, 
although lost to him, had inspired in him a faith 
which made him strong. 

I need not tell of my interview with Haomi’s 
mother. Suffice to say, after many questions, and 
some little persuasion, the matter was settled, and 
we were engaged. I stayed to dinner with them that 
evening, and sat by Haomi’s side. Mr. Walter Gray 
was there, too, who seemed, I thought, well satisfied 
with himself and with life generally. He was rather 
a good-looking young fellow, with a fair, smooth face. 
Born into wealth, and reared in luxury, the battles of 
his life were few. He was not one who could enter 
into a great joy, neither was he capable of suffering 
much ; but he was a well-behaved, entertaining fellow 
nevertheless, and I did not wonder that he was a 
general favorite. Hope seemed ill at ease, I thought ; 
still, she chatted cheerfully, and entered with some 
degree of eagerness into the plans we were making 
for excursions. 

When I left the house that night, I asked Haomi 
if she knew how Gray had fared in his wooing. 

“ It ’s not quite settled,” was the reply ; “ but I 
think it is nearly as good. Hope has not told me 
about it, indeed, she seems reticent ; but from what 
I can gather, she thinks Walter may regret his hasty 
choice. I fancy she has been raising her parentage 
and her early life as an objection, and will not allow 
anything to be settled. Anyhow, that is the impres- 
sion Walter has left on my mother’s mind. The 
whole matter is to be brought up at Christmas; 
meanwhile everything is to go on as usual.” 

“ Then Gray is satisfied ? ” 

“ I should judge so, from what mother told me a 
few minutes ago ; besides, as you saw, he seems very 
happy. Oh ! I’ve no doubt it will be all right. I ’m 


HOPES AND FEARS. 


381 


so glad ; nothing would please me better than to 
have Hope as my cousin.” 

As I walked back to Ilfracombe that night, I won- 
dered what course I ought to take, and presently 
came to the conclusion that it was better for Stephen 
to know the whole truth. Accordingly, as we sat in 
our room that night, I told him what I had heard 
from Naomi. He waited quietly until I had finished, 
but I saw how deeply my words moved him ; then 
he said slowly, — 

“ That doctrine of Hope is beautiful to think about, 
but hard to realize, Dan. After all, there is, can be, 
no hope for such as I.” 

“ Don’t say that, Steve.” 

“ It ’s no use hiding the fact, Dan ; I am hemmed 
in on every side. It is no use grumbling ; my life 
is ruined. Not that I cannot be a man even yet ; I 
will be that, come what may, I will be that. At 
one time I despaired of it, but I ’ve gone through 
that darkness, and have come out on the other side. 
It ’s a dark world in many respects, and it ’s hard to 
do right; but a man can be a man, nevertheless. 
But reaping follows the sowing, and I ’ve sowed, 
and others have sowed for me, so I must reap — and 
the reaping is terrible.” 

“ But let ’s hope that the worst is over, old man. 
You ’ve left the old life, you ’ve entered on the new.” 

‘‘Yes; the worst is over — in a way. I’m no 
longer the thing I was. I am not the sport of every 
passion — now. I can say ‘ no ’ to a temptation ; 
but it ’s terribly hard, even now. The new life is but 
little developed yet ; and my old creed of despair had 
destroyed nearly all the manhood within me. But 
this is the ghastly fact that is always haunting me. 
I cannot undo. I cannot undo the fact that for 
years I lived a corrupt, loathsome life. I excuse 
myself; I trace the forces that made me what I was; 


382 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


I say- 1 was more sinned against than sinning: but 
the fact remains. I feel I have no right to be in the 
society of pure people. Once, you know, I did n’t 
believe in purity ; but a new faith has come with a 
new life. I don’t feel as though I ’ve a right to take 
a little child in my arms and kiss it. Memory is a 
reality, and it haunts me until I am almost ready to 
despair again. Oh, I mean to be a man yet ! Hope 
made me feel I could be ; but the happiness and 
joy that others may feel is not for me.” 

“ Hope still, Steve.” 

“ Think, Dan. We saw my wife to-day. She is 
my wife ; divorce or no divorce, she ’s that. 1 mar- 
ried her, and the decree of a judge could n’t undo the 
marriage.” 

“ But did n’t her own action undo it ? In spirit 
she ’s not your wife ; the tie is broken.” 

I can’t get away from my vows so easily. I prom- 
ised to be true to her as long as we both should live. 

She became false, and then I But don’t let ’s 

talk of that ; it ’s like looking at darkness. But since 
I ’ve been trying to be a new man, the marriage vow 
becomes a reality again. Besides, if this were not so, 
the only woman I love, or ever can love, has, on your 
own confession, as good as promised herself to another ; 
and if she had n’t, what pure woman, knowing what 
I have been, would marry me ? I am poor ; I am 
unknown ; behind me is a past at which I shudder ; 
before me, in this life, is nothing but toil and sorrow.” 

“ Come, now, Steve ; that ’s a creed of despair re- 
stated.” 

‘‘ No, it ’s not. My outlook is wider. This life is 
but a fragment of existence. I think I believe in 
God, and because of that I hope that somehow good 
will be the final goal of ill. If I did n’t hope that, I 
should drift again. It ’s the only thing that holds me 
to the better life, that makes me feel that, in spite of 


HOPES AND FEARS. 


383 


all, the heart of the world is not evil, but good. It ’s 
only that which keeps me from trying to commit sui- 
cide again. Why, Dan, when I think of those years 
v^hen I drifted, when I let every evil passion have 
free course, when I cast everything good to the winds, 
and remember that, do what I will, go where I will, 
live as long as I may, I can never undo the fact that 
I have been an evil thing which fed on moral corrup- 
tion, I feel like going mad! Who am I, that I should 
have happiness ? Who am I, that any woman can 
love me ? But Hope made me believe in God, her 
goodness made me feel the possible goodness of the 
world, made me realize a Greater Goodness ; then I 
said, ‘ He has n’t finished with me yet,’ and perhaps 
some time in the far-off future ‘He will make me 
clean,’ then I shall be worthy.” 

“ And what of this life ? ” 

“ I hardly know. I am so weak, I lack will — reso- 
lution ; but I mean to go back to London, and write.” 

“ What about ? ” 

“ Hope ; perhaps, by and by, love ; but not yet, I 
could n’t. A worthier than I must write of that.” 

“And you think you can bear the idea of Hope 
marrying Walter Gray?” 

“ Don’t talk of it yet, Dan. I only realized my love 
for her last night, and for a moment the thought was 
heaven. I pictured her living with me, working by 
my side, and loving me. I forgot my own past, I 
only remembered hers. I thought of her as a little 
wizened thing with great gray eyes, which expressed 
a longing for a brighter life. Then I thought of her 
passing through the fire^ of temptation ; I thought of 
her with everything to lead her to yield to wrong ; 1 
remembered the thousand seductive things which I 
was sure were said to her ; and yet I saw her come 
out of the furnace unburnt, neither was the smell of 
fire upon her, for she had with her One who is greater 


384 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


than temptation. Then I saw her giving up a life of 
ease and pleasure to do the work of a savior ; and 
my heart burned with a great love which was full of 
joy. She seemed to be within my grasp ; she was 
God’s gift and message to me, until the memory of 
my past flashed before me and blasted my picture. 
Then I saw only darkness, and I cursed the men who 
had sown the seeds of despair in my life, cursed the 
books which wrecked my faith. But for them I, in 
spite of my wife, might have been wnrthy of her.” 

He had scarcely flnished speaking, when a knock 
came at the door. 

“ A gentleman to see Mr. Edgcumbe.” 

“ What is his name \ ” 

“No name. He said he wanted to see Mr. Edg- 
cumbe pertickler.” 

“ Show him in.” 

A moment later, Mr. Kalph Hussey stood in the 
room. 


HOW STEPHEN PAID HIS DEBT 885 


CHAPTEE VI. 

HOW STEPHEN PAID HIS DEBT. 

Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them 
that hate you. — Jesus Christ. 

I SAW at once that Hussey had been drinking. He 
entered with a staggering step, and his breath came 
heavily. 

Do you wish to see me alone ? ” said Stephen, “ or 
is your business of such a nature that my friend Dr. 
Eoberts can remain ? ” 

“ Oh ! it does n’t matter,” said Hussey, thickly. 
There ’s not much I ’ve got to say ; besides, you two 
were always together, and what one knew the other 
knew.” 

“ Very good,” said Stephen ; “ then my friend can 
stay. Please proceed.” 

“ You saved my life once,” said Hussey ; don’t 
you remember ? I should have drowned but for you. 
I never liked you ; and you might as well have left 
me to drown. I don’t know, though ; I ’ve done you 
a good turn since.” 

“ What ? ” asked Stephen. “ I don’t remember you 
ever doing me a good turn.” 

Yes, I did ; and jolly sorry I ’ve been ever since. 
I took your wife off your hands, I did ; and a nice 
life she ’s made me live. I thought I was just paying 
you out for stealing her from me ; and instead of that, 
I did you the best turn possible.” 

Stephen did not speak. 


25 


386 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“ When I saw you to-day, I told her I ’d have a 
talk with you ; so I found out where you were stay- 
ing, and I Ve come.” 

“ Is that all you have to tell me ? ” 

“ Not quite all. I told her I M tell you another 
thing just to spite her.” 

‘‘ Excuse me, I don’t wish to enter into any of your 
quarrels.” 

“ Oh, you need n’t be particular. There ’s no love 
lost between us. We go out together sometimes, just 
to keep up appearances ; but we are both heartily 
tired of each other, and I for one should be down- 
right glad if some one would serve me as I served 
you.” 

His brutality was sickening ; and I saw, on watch- 
ing his face, that he was a hard drinker. 

“ What -I was going to tell you is this,” he went on. 

By the way, of course you know that divorce affair 
was a make up from beginning to end ? ” 

Stephen did not reply. 

“ Well, it was she who suggested it. She said she 
was sure you ’d make no defence, and that whatever 
statement was made you would not deny it. Well, I 
was a fool about her in those days, so I got hold of 
Polden, who would do anything for me, and told him 
what I wanted. He arranged the matter. But it was 
Bell who suggested it in the first case ; ” and he 
laughed a half-drunken giggle. 

But why tell me this ? ” 

“ Oh, just to vex her. She thinks more of your 
good opinion than of anybody else’s. She used to be 
often wondering what had become of you. I think 
she ’s half in love with you now.” 

“ Mr. Hussey,” said Stephen, striding up to him, 
“ remember that in the eyes of England she ’s your 
wife ; remember, too, that she bears your name as 
your wife. Don’t degrade her as well as yourself.” 


HOW STEPHEN PAID HIS DEBT. 387 


He looked at us stupidly. “ Oh ! you still take 
the high moral tone, do you ? Well, she ’s knocked 
all that out of me. We are a sweet couple, we are. 
You don’t thank me for coming, then. Good-night.” 

The warmth of the room had evidently caused the 
drink which he had been taking to have greater effect 
upon him, for he seemed more drunk when he left 
than when he came. 

“ Do you think what he said is true, Dan ? ” said 
Stephen, after he had gone. 

“ What about ? ” 

“ That it was she who suggested the means whereby 
our marriage might be nullified.” 

Yes, I believe that was true.” 

“ If that is true,” said Stephen, slowly, “ she has 
destroyed that marriage. No wedding tie, however 
binding, could make her my wife.” 

“ That ’s what I think,” I replied. 

He was silent a few minutes, then he said quietly : — 

“No, Dan; neither her sin nor mine can undo. If 
she has sinned against me, I have sinned too.” 

“If there could be an excuse for sin, there was 
excuse for yours; but there can be none for hers. 
Through her your life has been wrecked.” 

He started to his feet. “Wrecked,” he cried; “yes, 
worse than wrecked. I wonder if ever I shall have 
the opportunity of paying the debt I owe her.” 

I asked him what he meant by his statement, but 
he would not reply. Hussey’s visit had excited him 
much — I knew it was a terrible strain for him to 
speak quietly to the man who was the husband of 
the woman he had once called his wife. 

When I came down the following morning, I found 
Stephen reading a letter. He looked very pale, and 
his hands trembled. He scarcely responded to me 
when I spoke, but sat and looked into vacancy, as 
though he were oblivious of my presence. Presently 


388 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


he passed the letter to me without a word. This is 
what I read: — 

“ Will you for the sake of what we once were, meet me 
to-night at ten o’clock at the entrance of the Torrs Walk? 
There is something I must tell you. I know I am asking 
more than I deserve, and yet I am not as bad as you think. 
We cannot speak ill of the dead — hut you know I had a 
father. Meet me for your own sake as well as mine. If 
you will do this, you will make the burden of my life a 
little less heavy to bear. Till then think as kindly as 
you can of the woman who was once your unworthy 
wife.” 

“ Shall you meet her ? ” I asked. 

“ Yes,” he replied ; “ I have sent a reply by the 
bearer of this letter.” 

After lunch, while passing by .one of the principal 
hotels in the little town, Stephen clutched my arm 
eagerly. Do you see ? ” he said in a whisper. 

I looked, and saw Hussey sitting on the driver’s 
seat of a carriage, to which was attached a handsome 
fiery horse. 

“ Come, Bell, are you ready ? ” he shouted. “ This 
black Jack of a horse won’t stand waiting for you 
here all day.” 

His wife came out and climbed into the carriage, 
assisted by a well-dressed young man. 

“ Where are you driving, Hussey ? ” asked the 
young fellow. 

To the devil ! ” was the response. 

“ Well, I can’t say Mrs. Hussey will have con- 
genial society,” laughed the other, “but of course 
you ’ll be perfectly at home.” 

They both laughed ; then Hussey saw us. “ Look, 
Bell,” he said loudly, “ don’t you see your old friend ? ” 
and again Stephen and the woman who had been his 
wife exchanged glances. Neither of them spoke, 


HOW STEPHEN PAID HIS DEBT. 389 


however; and the next minute Hussey lashed the 
horse, which started off at a swinging pace. 

“ I ostler,” said the young fellow who had been 
speaking, “ I don’t think you should have given him 
that horse to-day.” 

“ He would have ’im, sur. I zaith to ’im, I zaith, 
Sam is offul fiery, I zaith ; but he roared out top me, 
sur, like anything. He’th been a-drinking all the 
forenoon.” 

“Well, I shouldn’t like to ride behind Sam with 
him driving,” replied the young fellow. “ If 1 had n’t 
an engagement, I would get you to saddle a horse, 
and I’d follow. Is the road good?” 

“The road’s all right, sur. Jist a bit hilly, and 
there ’s one or two narrowish bridges ; but tes saafe 
enough, Mr. Eogers.” 

We walked on together towards the farm where 
Haomi was staying, for Stephen had consented to go 
so far with me. He would not enter the house, he 
said ; he was too excited to see Hope ; perhaps in a day 
or two he would be able to meet her calmly. 

On arriving, however, I learnt to my chagrin that 
Mrs. Reviere, Naomi, and Hope were from home ; 
but I found a letter from Naomi awaiting me. It 
stated that her mother had, without consulting her, 
arranged to call on an old friend that afternoon, and 
had promised to take Hope and her. She, Naomi, 
was awfully disappointed ; but she could n’t help it, 
but hoped that I would come over again in the 
evening, when she would explain more fully. When 
I turned away from the farm, I saw Stephen slowly 
returning ; but on my calling him back, he seemed 
only too delighted that I was going to spend the 
afternoon with him. 

“ Let us go for a long walk,” he said. “ This 
country reminds me of Witney, and a ramble among 
the hills will bring back old times to us.” 


390 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


I ’m afraid I Ve been a poor companion,” I re- 
plied ; “but you’ll forgive me, I know.” 

“I’m only too glad that you are happy, old chap,” 
he answered, almost cheerfully. “ I ’m not enough of 
a dog in the manger to grudge you joy, and yet it ’s 
a bit hard for me to bear up.” 

“ Dan,” he continued presently, after a few min- 
utes’ silence, “ can you guess what she wants to speak 
to me about ? ” 

“ No ; I am sorry you are going.” 

“ I don’t want to go, and yet I feel I must. She 
was my wife once, and I want to think the best I 
can of her.” 

“ Surely you don’t care for her still ? ” 

“No, no — that’s all dead. It isn’t that — her 
existence is a burden to me. While she lives, she 
will haunt me like a nightmare. I — I believe I 
hate her. But for her, Dan, in spite of everything, 
I would go to Hope and tell her I love her, and ask 
her to take the life she has saved.” 

“ God has saved your life, not she,” I said. 

“ Yes ; but God saved it through her. She is the 
channel through which He works. I ’ve been 
thinking about Hope and that Gray. Wouldn’t 
she, if she had loved him, have accepted him at 
once ? ” 

“ I should say not,” I replied, thinking he had 
better try and destroy a love which was hopeless. 
“ She would naturally feel that her birth and early 
associations were obstacles in the way of her accept- 
ing him.” 

“ Perhaps so,” he answered, with a sigh ; “ besides, 
it ’s no use my troubling about it. I could not ask 
her while the — other woman is living ; and yet the 
thought of winning her is like my dream of heaven. 
I ’ll meet her, Dan ; but ” — and his eyes gleamed 
savagely — “ I feel as though I could kill her.” 


HOW STEPHEN PAID HIS DEBT. 391 


“ What ’s come over you, old man ? ” 

“I feel that it would be heaven just to give my- 
I self over to the devil for one day again ; not to be as 
I was, but just for revenge. That ’s why I ’ve made 
up my mind to meet her.’' 

I! “ Then Steve, old man, don’t go.” 

“Yes, I shall go,” he laughed; “I shall go. I 
. was a hypocrite just now. I said I wanted to think 
the best of her. I don’t. I want to make her feel 
what I ’ve felt, to make her suffer the hell I ’ve suf- 
fered, to drag her where I ’ve been dragged.” 

“ Come, old man, that ’s not worthy of Hope.” 

“ Hope ! ” he cried, “ it ’s for the sake of Hope ! 

Does n’t she stand between Hope and me ” He 

stopped suddenly. “ Nay, Dan, you are right, and 
I ’m far from being a man yet.” 

We trudged on mile after mile without speaking, 
but I could see his lips trembling, and his hands 
clenching nervously. 

“ I ’m wanting to think the best of her, Dan, want- 
ing to forgive her,” he cried at length ; “ but it ’s 
hard. If she were dead, perhaps I might ; but when 

I think of her ruining my life, driving me to . 

But there, one day I think one thing, and another 
the next ; I ’m just like a child, and as weak as a 
child.” 

We were standing, I recollect, at the time in a 
narrow lane. On one side was a hedge, on the other 
was a bank about three feet high, with a flat top. 
This bank sloped up to a hedge. The lane was on 
the side of a hill, and sloped down to a narrow val- 
ley, or gully, where a river ran. Across this river a 
bridge had been built, which was flanked with iron 
bars. To the ordinary country traveller there was 
nothing dangerous about the place ; the farmers had 
for generations driven along this road to market, 
while the ordinary trafiflc of the neighborhood had, so 


392 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


I was afterwards informed, never been attended by 
a serious accident. 

I was about to reply to Stephen, when our atten- 
tion was arrested by the sound of horse’s feet and the 
rush of wheels. 

“Whoa!” a loud voice shouted; “whoa, you 
black devil 1 D you I Stop, I say ! ” 

Just then the conveyance swept into sight, and 
my heart seemed to stand still, for seated in the car- 
riage were Hussey and his wife. Hussey was saw- 
ing at the reins by which he tried to hold the excited 
horse, which dashed alon^ as though the carriage 
were a bit of thistledown, while his wife sat para- 
lyzed with terror. Their danger was imminent. 
The horse was going down hill; the bridge was 
only a few hundred yards away, and was barely wide 
enough for the carriage to pass when carefully driven ; 
beneath, fifteen or twenty feet below the bridge, was 
a river, not deep, but its bed was a mass of rugged 
rocks. Hussey had completely lost control of the 
horse ; evidently the animal had got the bit between 
his teeth, and had been probably maddened by his 
drunken driver’s treatment. 

“ Save me, Stephen 1 ” 

She had seen us, then, and had realized her dan- 
ger. It was the first time she had spoken to him for 
many long years. 

Involuntarily I looked at him, and I shall never 
forget the look on his face. At that moment he 
seemed to realize everything. All the past, the pres- 
ent, the possible future, flashed like a beam of light 
before his eyes. Love, hatred, hope, despair, were all 
present with him at that moment. 

The carriage came nearer and nearer, Hussey 
scarcely checking the speed of the maddened horse. 

“ Save me ! Oh, save me, Stephen ! ” 

It was madness, worse than madness, as I thought 


HOW STEPHEN PAID HIS DEBT. 


393 


then, and still think. There was but one means of 
stopping the terrified beast, and that was to grasp 
the bridle, and drag his head to the ground. But 
what chance was there of doing such a thing ? 
Where there was one chance of success in such a per- 
ilous undertaking, there were ninety and nine of 
failure, in which case the wheels would sweep over 
the body of the one who would rescue ! 

There was not a moment’s time for hesitation, and 
I, irresolute, and not physically courageous, would 
have stood by, while horse and people swept on to 
destruction. I saw the light flash from Stephen’s 
eyes, and then I realized that he was not by my 
side, but that he was swinging by the horse’s head, 
his right hand holding fast by the head-gear. 

With half-blinded eyes I followed, and although 
the horse’s speed was checked, I had difficulty in 
keeping close to the carriage. The next thing I can 
remember was hearing a horrible crash, while I 
could dimly see that Stephen was dragged along the 
ground, close to the horse’s head. 

I heard a shout from a field close by, and fancied 
I saw some men running towards us ; but I was too 
excited to be sure, for at that moment I heard 
another crash as of breaking, and then the wheels 
ground against the rocks by the roadside, and a 
moment later the carriage overturned with a tremen- 
dous thud. By this time the horse was nearly mas- 
tered ; but it was too late, for at that moment he 
dashed the body of Stephen against the iron bar 
which flanked the bridge, and then stumbled forward 
heavily towards the gully, dragging the shattered 
carriage behind him. 

I rushed to the horse’s head, and pressed it to the 
ground. It was all I could do at that moment, and it 
was the only way to finish Stephen’s work of sal- 
vation, if salvation were possible. In another minute 


394 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


the men I thought I had seen running towards us 
arrived, and began to talk excitedly. 

“ Both dead, don’t you think so. Dr. Eoberts ? ” 
said the country surgeon whom I had sent a man to 
bring. I did not like to take the responsibility under 
such circumstances ; especially as I had no surgical 
instruments. 

“ Yes ; they are both dead.” 

“ And your friend ? ” 

“ I don’t know yet. What do you think ? ” 

“He’s quite unconscious now, as you see. Two 
of his ribs are badly fractured, his left arm is broken, 
and then there are those terrible bruises on the head. 
It was a grand thing he tried to do ; but it was 
madness, pure madness, to endanger his life like that. 
However, he did his best ; and could he have brought 
the horse to his knees a few seconds before, he might 
have saved them ; but those rocks, the narrow bridge, 
and the gully did for them. Have you seen the car- 
riage ? It is split up like matchwood.” 

“ Yes ; it was a terrible affair.” 

“ They were not friends of his, I suppose ? ” 

“No.” 

“Well — ah, here’s the hotel proprietor; he’ll 
know all about them.” 

I turned and saw a group of men and women 
gathered together. They were looking with a kind 
of subdued wonder at the bodies of the man and 
woman who had been killed. One bolder than the 
rest had pulled aside the cloth which had been 
thrown over their faces, and the crowd, seemingly 
fascinated, whispered one to another. “ 

Hussey’s face was cut and bleeding, but his wife’s 
was scarcely touched. She looked handsome, even 
in death, and revealed much of that beauty which 
made Stephen her slave years before. 


HOW STEPHEN PAID HIS DEBT. 395 

“’Tes a ter’ble sudden death,” said one of the 
laborers. 

“ Ter’ble,” replied another, who was evidently re- 
ligiously inclined, “ ter’ble. I wonder ef they was 
boath prepared to die, for by this time they do stand 
at the bar of God.” 

“ Ed’n she purty,” said another. 

And so they went on talking until I, sickened 
and faint, turned again to the spot where Stephen 
was lying. The blood was slowly trickling down 
his face, and his mouth twitched as if he were in 
pain. 

I took his hand in mine, where it hung limp and 
unresisting. 

‘‘Ah,” said the doctor, coming up, “the stretcher 
will soon be here. What do you think about him, 
Dr. Koberts ? ” 

“ The sooner he is taken to bed, the better,” I said ; 
“ and then, all that human skill can do shall be done 
for him.” 

I had sore misgivings, however ; and I remem- 
bered his promise to meet the woman who lay dead, 
that very night. 

“ Would he meet her ? ” I wondered. 

A group of men came up with a stretcher, upon 
which we gently laid him, then we started on our 
walk to Ilfracombe. 

I turned towards the bodies which lay so still by 
the road-side. Well, she who had wrecked his life 
had run her course, and Stephen had offered his life 
to save hers; he had wiped out the debt he owed her 
in blood. 

“ What had she to tell him ? ” I wondered ; “ what 
would she have said to him had they met ? Anyhow, 
the words she would have spoken would never 
be uttered this side the grave.- -And if she would 
have pleaded for forgiveness, she would have to wait 


396 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


until he too had crossed the line she had crossed, 
the line to which he was so near. 

*^The last words she had spoken to him were a 
cry for help, and he had responded to that cry, even 
though his life were the forfeit of his response. 

“ Yes, Stephen, my friend,” I said ; “ you have 
wiped out the debt you owed her.” 

Would he die ? ” I wondered ; “ would all these 
long years of struggling and pain end thus ? ” It 
would seem terribly hard if it were so. And yet, 
after all, as he had said, our existence here is but 
a fragment of life. Still, there was a great pain in 
my heart, for I loved him as much as one man ever 
loved another. 


BACK TO WORK AGAIN, 


397 


CHAPTER VIL 

BACK TO WORK AGAIN. 

Through labor to rest, through combat to victory. 

Thomas A Kempis. 

A ll through the time of the inquest, the asking 
of questions, the hundred gossiping stories, and 
the funeral, Stephen’s life was trembling in the bal- 
ance. At one time I despaired of his recovery ; but 
after some days of weary waiting and watching came 
a change, and then I knew he would live, that his 
strong vitality would overcome the terrible shock he 
had suffered, and that in a few weeks he would be 
restored to his normal health. 

Hope Hillyer nursed him through his unconscious 
hours, — nursed him tenderly and well; and yet I 
thought I felt a difference in her. A change had 
taken place since that other w^eary time of watching 
we had undergone together, after he had been pulled 
out of the river. Naturally I attributed it to the 
fact that she regarded herself as in some way engaged 
to Walter Gray, who would perhaps resent the idea 
of the woman who had practically promised to be his 
wife nursing a man of whom he knew nothing. 
And yet I thought she could hardly do less. She 
was skilled as a nurse, and was, moreover, the only 
woman in Ilfracombe whom he would care to have 
by his bedside. Besides, she owed much to him, — 
owed, perhaps, what was dearer than life itself. 
When he showed signs of returning consciousness. 


398 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


however, and was practically out of danger, she 
pleaded her work in London, and left Ilfracombe. 
Still, the worse part of the work was over, and by the 
aid of a good, motherly old soul, I did what was best 
for him. 

As may be imagined, the affair caused a great deal 
of gossip, and presently it leaked out that the woman 
he had tried to save had once been his wife. Then, 
I do not know how, rumors were started in the 
papers that the divorce was but a concocted affair, 
and that Stephen, instead of being a man who 
wronged his wife, was himself wronged, and had now 
almost given up his life in the vain hope of rescuing 
hers. The laborers who had been working in the 
fields, and who saw the danger of the man and wife, 
testified to what Stephen had tried to do ; and alto- 
gether Stephen was the hero of the hour. But he 
was unconscious of it all. He lay very near the dark 
river, and the noise of its watei'S drowned the clamor 
of men’s tongues. But Hope listened to the reports, 
and read the newspaper paragraphs eagerly. 

Thus, after influencing him so terribly, Ealph 
Hussey and the woman I first knew as Isabella 
Tempest passed away from the pathway of my 
friend’s life. 

I told him these things as he could bear it ; and 
as the xiays passed away, and he grew strong enough 
to go out, we talked of this and a thousand other 
things. I noticed, too, that a great change came over 
him after this last illness. During the time he had 
been writing his book he had passed through strange 
moods. Sometimes he was bitter and despairing. 
He complained of circumstances, he cursed the forces 
which made him what he was. I knew, too, that as 
he realized the wreck of his life, he felt, instead of a 
hard carelessness concerning the woman he called 
wife, a bitter hatred which led him to curse her, and 


BACK TO WORK AGAIN. 


399 


the day on which he had first seen her. - But all that 
passed away, and one evening, as we sat watching the 
setting sun, and listening to the waves as they broke 
upon the rocks, he told me of the change. 

“ You remember how bitter I was that afternoon, 
Dan,” he said. “ You remember what I said. I felt 
as though I would be glad to see her dead, that I 
could sharpen the knife to place in the hand of her 
murderer. Just then, you know, she cried for help, 
and at that moment everything evil within me 
seemed to tell me to let her die. I think I lived 
my life over again during those moments the horse 
galloped towards us. Then I made a great resolve, 
and, realizing the danger I courted, I leaped at the 
horse’s head and caught the bridle-rein. With that 
resolve, and with that act, I knew that a great puri- 
fying power passed through me, that a greater life 
had entered me; I felt that the work Hope began 
was a reality at last.” 

I looked at his eyes, and I saw they were lus- 
trous as in the old days, — saw, too, that his face, 
though worn and thin, was the face of a man who 
had entered into a great victory. I knew then that 
Stephen was a new man. 

A few days later, Luke Edgcumbe came down to 
Ilfracombe. He had seen the newspaper reports, and 
wanted, he said, to tell how glad he was that his 
nephew had escaped. He wanted to congratulate 
him too, he said, on some of the reviews he had seen 
of his book. 

I ought to have said, in this connection, that 
Stephen’s book was published two or three days after 
the accident. It had not made a great sensation, 
but it was beginning to be talked about in certain 
circles, and letters of congratulation had been sent 
to him. 

“ I seldom read a novel, but I got a copy of yours 


400 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


and read it,” said Luke. ‘‘ I wanted to see what sort 
of a mess you made of it.” 

“ Well,” said Stephen, and now for your criticisms.” 

“ From a money standpoint it won’t be worth 
<£50,” replied Luke. 

No, I don’t think it will.” 

Then why did you write such a story ? Such a 
lurid picture as you drew made me feel uncomfortable 
for days. People don’t like to be harrowed up. You 
did make it a bit brighter at the end, but I saw that 
one of your critics complained of you even for that.” 

“Yes, more than one has done that.” 

“ Then why write such a book ? ” 

“ Because I wanted to leave an impression. I 
wanted my book to be a warning and a promise.” 

“ Warning and promise. Don’t bother, lad. If you 
will be a fool, and not share in what I ’ve made, then 
write something that will make money. To be frank, 
I believe you have the power to make a hundred or 
two a year that way ; but don’t bother about people, 
let them all go their dirty, mean ways.” 

I hardly remember the exact words Stephen gave 
as a reply, but I know that a few minutes later the 
younger man was telling the older one the story of 
his dark days, and telling, too, of the influences which 
helped him to become what he was. He did not 
speak harshly, but quietly, earnestly, Luke Edgcumbe 
listening attentively all the while. 

When Stephen had finished, his uncle’s face was 
a study ; but he did not speak. A look of wonder, 
incredulity, and sorrow seemed to rest there, and he 
sighed as though in pain. 

For a long time we were all silent; then Luke 
broke out abruptly, — 

“ And you say that Hope saved you ? ” 

“ Yes, that was it. A hope for my own life, a 
hope for the life of others, for the life pf the world. 


BACK TO WORK AGAIN, 


401 


A struggling faith in an Eternal Goodness at the 
heart of things, — but for that I could never have 
risen.” 

‘‘ And that little girl — that girl you called Hope 

— where is she now ? ” 

Stephen told him, a flush mounting his pale cheek 
all the while. 

Luke Edgcumbe looked at his nephew keenly. 

“ Engaged to Gray, is she ? ” 

“ I suppose so ; I’m told it ’s as good as settled.” 
Steve, my boy, you love this little thing you 
saved, do you ? Is that your secret ? ” 

I never heard Luke Edgcumbe ask a question 
so gently before. I am not sure, but I thought his 
eyes were dimmed with tears. 

“ Yes,” replied Stephen. 

Poor lad ! poor lad ! And you hope ? ” 

Not in that way,” replied Stephen. No ; I 
dare not. But I believe in her, — her purity, her 
goodness.” 

Again Luke was silent ; then he broke out again : 
“And if she marries this Gray, this heir to that 
precious philanthropist, will it not sadden, embitter 
your life ? ” 

“ Sadden it, — yes ; but the other, — while I believe 
in God, — no.” 

“ What has God to do with it ? ” 

“ If God is God, this is but the fragment of life. 
He will complete, make all things right. 

“ That is your hope ? ” 

“ My ultimate hope.” 

Again there was a silence ; then Luke spoke again : 
“ Steve, my lad, I loved your mother, worshipped 
her ; and when she married your father, I felt a great 
empty place in my heart. Since then — But there 

— if I ’ve done you a wrong, forgive me. my boy. You 

— you are like her, and I find my heart is n’t dead 

26 


402 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


yet. But you Ve found what I have n’t found. 
There, don’t let’s talk any more to-night!” 

Half an hour later, Luke Edgcumbe was grim and 
satirical as before, but he was n’t cynical. 

As soon as we could, we returned to London ; in- 
deed, I had often been obliged to take a journey to 
the City, in order to attend to matters which needed 
my presence; for although my assistant was much 
trusted and respected, I found it difficult to remain 
at Stephen’s side as long as I did. Arrived there, 
the old work awaited me ; ay, and the old joys too, 
for a doctor’s life has its joys. But more than 
all, a bright prospect was before me, for Naomi had 
promised to link her life to mine when spring 
came. 

Stephen still stayed with me ; and, his novel being 
fairly successful, he started to work on another. He 
worked hard to prepare for it, and spent many a long 
day and night in Battersea, studying the life and 
condition of the people. 

“ What is to be your title ? ” I asked. 

“I have two,” he replied; '‘I hardly know which 
to take yet.” 

“ A great deal depends on the title,” I said ; " what 
are they ? ” 

“ They are both from Browning’s ‘ Pippa Passes.’ 
One is ‘ God ’s in His Heaven,’ and the other is 
‘ All ’s right with the World.’ Both mean the same, 
but I hardly know which is best.” 

‘‘ And you believe this after studying the life of 
Battersea ? ” 

He gave me a qiiiet look, and I was answered. 

“ You are going to be the prophet of hope, then ? ” 

“ I ’rn going to try.” 

“ Hope for yourself, then 1 ” 

“ What do you, mean ? ” 


BACK TO WORK AGAIN. 


403 


“Just that. Christmas has come and gone, and 
there ’s no news of an engagement.” 

“ You know something ? ” 

“ Nothing but that.” 

He was silent for a few minutes; then he said 
quietly, — 

“ It may be, Dan, it may he ; but she ’s not for me. 
After all, the fact of the ghastly past remains. Dan, 
do you think a man with such a past as mine, no 
matter how sincere his repentance, no matter the 
life he lives afterwards, has the right to ask a pure 
girl to be his wife ? ” 

I was silent. It was a question I dared not an- 
swer. I know that impurity among men is regarded 
by many as a matter of no importance. I know 
that satiated roues are often regarded by enterpris- 
ing mammas as brilliant partners for their young 
daughters. But was it right to have two codes of 
morality, — one for men, and another for women ? 
Was it right that the fallen woman should be ever 
excommunicated from society, and from all that her 
heart might long for, while the man who made her 
what she was could be received into the “ best 
houses ” with open arms ? 

“Dan,” he continued presently, “have you read 
any of this new literature which has come out, this 
work of the ' modern woman ’ ? ” 

“ God save me from such a thing, old man ! ” 

“ You have not read this new novel, ‘ The Super- 
fluous Children,’ then ? ” 

“ No ; I tried, but I could n’t get on with it.” 

“Most of it is poor, drivelling stuff. I’ll admit. 
Effeminate bosh, with a good deal of dirty innuendo 
thrown in ; but it raises this question, it puts it 
strongly.” 

“ And what is the answer given ? How does the 
writer solve the problem ? ” 


404 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“In the only way she says it can he solved. The 
writer contends that it is the duty of every woman to 
demaud purity on the part of the man she marries. 
If he cannot testify to this, it is for her to refuse him. 
Listen to this : ‘ I contend that a woman sins against 
her body, sins against her soul, blasphemes her God, 
if she consents to be the wife of a man who has been 
impure. Every man demands that the woman he 
marries shall be able to show a clean past ; then let 
every woman also demand that the man she marries 
shall be able to prove a clean past ; and if he cannot, 
let her leave him, even although it be at the marriage 
altar, or at the marriage supper. When a woman 
falls, her life is ruined ; let this be true in the case 
of men. When this becomes a part of our moml 
code, marriages will be pure, and the dawn of a new 
day will come for the sex which has been crushed by 
the tyrant heels of sensual brutes.’ ” , 

He stopped reading. “ What do you think of it, 
Dan ? ” 

“ If the woman did n’t write so bombastically, there 
would be an amount of force in what she says.” 

“ She tells the truth, old man.” 

“ You think so ? ” 

“ I ’m sure of it. But even if my desires and plans 
were not impossible, she rings the death-knell to my 
every hope of taking a pure woman to my heart.” 

Just that moment my father came into the room, 
and I asked him whether he had read the book in 
question. 

“ Yes,” replied my father, “ I have read it.” 

“ Well, and what is your opinion ? ” 

“ I think it is written by a woman.” 

“ Evidently ; but what may your remark mean ? 
You would not condemn a book because it is written 
by a woman ? ” 

“ Certainly not. What I meant was, that the 


BACK TO WORK AGAIN. 


405 


woman has got hold of a truth ; hut, woman-like, she 
has expressed it in a one-sided way. It is true, she 
pretends to see the many sides of our nature, and has 
wandered far and wide in order to make it appear 
that she has taken a broad grasp of things. But she 
hsLS not. She fastens on one sin. Who shall say 
that sin is worse than another ? Sin does not depend 
so much on the particular way in which it expresses 
itself, as on the condition of the life of the sinner., 
A man debases his mind to find satisfaction, he lies, 
he concocts foul schemes, and by it makes a fortune ; 
and the writer would not regard this sufficiently 
heinous for a woman to leave a husband or refuse a 
lover. He debases his body, and she goes into hys- 
terics. Yet which is worse ? ” 

We were both silent. 

“ Is this woman so absolutely pure that she takes 
such a high hand with men ? ” went on my father. 
“ Do not all of us need to read that story in the 
New Testament where those hypocrites brought the 
sinful woman to Jesus, and quoted to him the law of 
Moses ? Would any of us, men or women, be quick 
to condemn if we heard the Divine Carpenter's 
words, ‘ Let him that is without sin cast the first 
stone ’ ? Mind you, there is much truth in what the 
woman says : there are at present two laws, one for 
men, and the other for women. The man may have 
an evil past, and nothing is thought of it ; the woman, 
if she has an evil past, is a leper, an outcast. In in- 
sisting on the same moral code for both, she does a 
good work ; but when she starts out to proclaim the 
superiority of either sex, she is one-sided.” 

“ But do you not think women purer than men ? ” 
asked Stephen. 

“ As far as certain forms of sin go, probably ; but 
deadly sin is not confined to lust. Still, this book 


406 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


will have an influence on the times ; only there is a 
danger lest it lead women to be vain and foolish.” 

“ There is truth in what yau say,” said Stephen, 
eagerly ; “ but it seems to me you have left much un- 
said. What, for example, would you say to ” 

He did not finish the sentence, for at that moment 
a knock came at the door, and a servant entered 
bearing a letter. It was addressed to Stephen, and 
when he looked at the handwriting, his hands 
trembled. 

“ I must go,” he said, giving me the letter. It ran 
as follows : — 

17 Bilford Row, 

Chelsea, S. W. 

My dear Friend, — Will you come to the above ad- 
dress at once 'i A woman named Baker says she wants to 
see you. She has told me why. Please come if you can, 
for she says she cannot die happy until that which is prey- 
ing on her mind is removed. 

Yours sincerely and gratefully, 

Hope Hillyer. 

The next minute Stephen was on his way to 
Chelsea. 


THE REFINING FIRE. 


407 


CHAPTER VIII. 


THE REFINING FIRE. 


Darkness fled, 

Light shone, and order from disorder sprung. 

Paradise Lost. 



HEN Stephen arrived at 17 Bilford Row, he 


vv was at once ushered into the room where the 
woman Baker lay. The place was lit by a small par- 
affin lamp, which smelt badly, and, in addition to the 
unwholesome atmosphere of the room, made it almost 
impossible to breathe at the first entrance. On a 
bed in the corner lay the woman whom Stephen had 
not seen for long years, and by her side sat Hope 
Hillyer. 

“ I Ve come, you see,” said Stephen, on entering. 

“Yes; I told her you would come. Look,” she 
said, turning to the woman, “Mr. Edgcumbe is here.” 

The poor thing gave a moan, and then started 
coughing. It was a consumptive cough; and from 
the way she panted and gasped when the fit was over, 
Stephen judged that she was near death. 

She looked up into his face beseechingly, and Ste- 
phen saw the havoc which sin and dissipation of all 
sorts had made upon her face. “ You know all about 
it,” she gasped ; “ do you forgive me ? I — I was a 
bad un — then ; I Ve been worse since. It was a 
dirty trick — and it just makes me wild — forgive 
me, will you ? ” 

“ Yes ; I forgive you,” replied Stephen. 


408 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“ You mean it really ? I did n’t like to do it ; but 
it meant a good deal o’ money, and, after all, I was too 
far gone to mind so much, — only tlie doctor and this 
young lady says as ’ow I can’t live, and I ’d like to die 
square if I can. I don’t mind Jack, he never cared a 

for me; but you never did me no harm. The 

chap that was with you that night put me up to it. 
Said you was a chapel-going hypocrite, and all that, 
so I said I would ; but now I can’t sleep for it, and I 
can’t die for it.” 

“ Don’t trouble,” said Stephen ; “ the past is past, 
and I — I’m not the one that ought to be hard.” 

“Thank you, thank you — you can’t be a bad bloke. 
Do you think God is anything like you ? ” 

Stephen did not speak. 

“ I hope He is,” gasped the woman, after another fit 
of coughing. “ He might give me another chance 
then, for, honor bright, I don’t think I ’ve had a 
chance to be good here. I was taught to go on the 
loose when I was a little un, and it ’s jolly hard to git 
off a track like that.” 

“ I believe God will give you another chance,” 
said Stephen. “I’m sure He’ll do the best for 
you.” 

“ Why do you think that ? ” 

“ Jesus Christ tells me so.” 

“ Ah, that ’s what this young lady says. I am glad ; 
I — I — think I ’d like to sleep a bit. You ’re sure 

you forgive me. I was mean ; but you do, you ’re 

sure ? ” 

“ Yes ; I ’m sure.” 

The woman sighed contentedly, and closed her 
eyes. 

He turned to Hope. “ Thank you for writing me,” 
he said. “ I am glad if I have been able to give the 
poor thing any peace.” 

Hope led the way to the passage. 


THE REFINING FIRE, 


409 


‘‘We can talk better here,” she said. “ And I don’t 
want to disturb her.” 

“ Where did you find her ? ” asked Stephen. 

“ Down by Chelsea Barracks, at midnight, last Wed- 
nesday. The matron and I were there together. She 
was ill then, and we were full at the Home ; but she 
paid for this room, so we brought her here. I Ve been 
here ever since. It’s been terrible, but the doctor 
says most likely she ’ll die at midnight. She told me 
the story about — you, yesterday. That Polden must 

have been a most But there, he was employed 

by others.” 

“ And they are dead. Let them rest,” said Stephen, 
quietly. 

Hope looked up into his face ; and then, as they 
both heard a moan in the room, she went by the bed- 
side for a minute, and then came back again. 

“ It ’s terribly sad, is n’t it ? ” she said. 

“ God has n’t finished with her yet,” said Stephen. 

“ Ho,” she said ; “ life would be a mockery if He 
had.” 

“ Hope,” said Stephen, “ I would like to have a talk 
with you some time. Hot now, — I could n’t say 
what I want to say here, — but some time when you 
have a free hour — alone. May I?” 

She hesitated a second ; then she said slowly, “ Yes ; 
that is, as soon as I can.” 

“ And you will let me know when ? Or say next 
Sunday night — after all the churches are closed ? I’ll 
come to the Home.” 

“ I may be engaged then.” 

“ But if you are not engaged ; and you can drop me 
a line if you are, telling me when you will be at 
liberty. I will meet you at church if you like.” 

“ Yes ; come on Sunday night, if I do not write — 
to the Home. You would not care to go to the same 
place of worship that I go. It is a humble little 


410 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


place, where unlearned preachers come and talk to us. 
Do you go to any church ? And do you believe in 
them now ? ” 

“ Yes ; I go sometimes. There is much that ’s 
wrong, mryy very wrong in the churches. There 's 
bigotry, narrowness, caste, and hollow formalism ; but 
many of the people are really trying to do good, 
and after all they are the greatest force for good. A 
people without a religion is hopeless.” 

“ Yes, you are right ; but I must go in now. She 
needs me, and the doctor will soon be here. Good- 
night.” 

“ Good-night, Hope. Don’t think too ” He 

did not finish the sentence, but dropped her hand 
suddenly, and hurried down the street. 

During the next few days Stephen was strangely 
agitated, especially as Sunday drew near. On the 
Saturday night, I remember, he accompanied me to 
Naomi’s home, and once during the evening he 
seemed almost entirely to lose control of himself. 
Mrs. Eeviere was one of those dear, motherly old 
souls who are always talking ; and when Naomi and 
I were taking part in one of those foolish conversa- 
tions in which lovers of all ages indulge, Mrs. Eeviere 
appealed to Stephen whether we ought not to be 
ashamed of ourselves. 

“Especially dignified Dr. Eoberts, with whom I 
can hardly feel familiar enough to call Daniel,” said 
the old lady ; “ ought he not to know better ? But 
there, I expect you ’ll be the same when you ’ve got 
the chance. I ’ve been looking out for a young lady 
for you, and I ’ve got my eye on two or three that I 
think will suit. I used to think that Hope 
Hillyer might do ; but I suppose, when she leaves 
that awful work she ’s doing, she ’ll marry my nephew, 
although I must say Walter has been very quiet about 
it lately. Any one might think nothing was to come 


THE REFINING FIRE. 


411 


of it, after all ; although I must say Hope seemed very 
friendly with Walter, and Walter is no doubt very 
fond of her, and seemed quite confident when we were 
down in Devonshire that the matter would be settled 
by last Christmas.” 

The old lady was continuing in the same strain, 
when Stephen got up and rushed out of the room. 

“ It ’s most extraordinary behavior,” said Mrs. 
Eeviere ; but I think he must be ill. Go after him, 
doctor, and give him some sal volatile or something. 
Here, take my smelling-salts ; they are splendid for 
a headache.” 

Stephen came back immediately, and apologized 
for his rudeness ; he seemed outwardly calm, yet I 
knew he was suffering. 

The next day he went for a long walk in the coun- 
try, but came back in time to keep his appointment 
with Hope; and when half-past seven came, he 
started for Chelsea, his face pale to the lips. 

When he arrived at the Home, and knocked at the 
door, a lady about fifty came and spoke to him. 

Yes ; Sister Hope was in her sitting-room, and, she 
believed, expected him, was the lady’s reply to his 
inquiry. A minute later, Stephen and Hope were 
alone together. For a few minutes they talked of 
the woman Baker, who had died on the night of 
Stephen’s visit ; for Stephen found it hard to speak 
of that which was nearest to his heart, and on which 
hung such issues. 

And your health ? ” she said to him after a while ; 
“ you do not suffer from — what you suffered down 
at Ilfracombe ? ” 

No,” replied Stephen, “I am quite strong now, and 
I can work with ease. You will be glad to hear that 
I am taken on the staff of a fairly influential daily 
paper. My novel, too, the one I called ‘ Visions,’ has 
just appeared in a popular edition, and is, I am told. 


412 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


selling rapidly. I am quite a prosperous man, you 
see.” 

“ I am very glad,” she replied ; " and you will con- 
tinue to live with Dr. Eoberts ? ” 

“ I think not. Dan is to be married next month, 
and I do not feel like being there. Somehow, it does 
not seem right. Not that Dan would object; you 
see, we have been friends so many years, and he re- 
mained true to me — through all that dark time ; but 
there ’s Miss Eeviere, I am afraid it would not be 
pleasant for her.” 

“ She is a true girl,” replied Hope, “ and I am sure 
she would consent to whatever Dr. Eoberts thought 
best.” 

“ Yes, she might ; only ” He hesitated a 

second, not knowing how to proceed, then he burst 
out suddenly : “ Are you engaged to young Gray ? ” 
No.” 

But he asked you to be his wife ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ You do not wish — that is, you do not care, that 
is — well enough to be his wife ? ” 

She did not reply, and Stephen, with trembling 
voice, went on speaking. 

“ Hope, may I tell you something ? ” 

“ Yes, if you will” 

“ You — you know you saved me. Through you I 
was dragged out of — hell. I should have died but 
for you — a suicide.” 

In his eagerness he drew his chair nearer to hers, 
but she did not speak. 

“ If I have become — a man again, it has been, 
humanly speaking,, through you. I had given up all 
hope, all belief in virtue, in truth, in goodness. You 
made me believe again, you made me hope for myself 
— you know, don’t you ? ” 

Still she was silent ; but Stephen saw that her face 
had become very pale. 


THE REFINING FIRE. 


413 


Well, because of these things, nay, I do not know ; 
hut Hope — I ^ I love you with all my life. You 
are listening ? ” 

“ Yes.” She spoke very low, but Stephen heard 
her answer. 

“ I know I am daring ; I know that I ought never 
to expect one like you to care for such an one as I 
have been ; Hope, my darling, forgive me, but the 
hope you inspired within me has led me to dream 
that even you 'might care for me. Do you ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ But I have hoped you might love me — love me 
as a woman should love her husband ? I know that 
I am — that is, I — I dare not think of ray past ; I 
loathe it, shudder at it, even although it is past. But 
God has forgiven me, and I dared to think, even 
although I was a thousand times unworthy, that you 
might love me so. Do you ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

She spoke calmly, almost coldly ; but Stephen 
started up in great joy, and seized her hand. 

“ Then, Hope,” he cried, “ my sky will be bright, 
after all. Darling, you have made the world heaven ; 
with you I can — that is — you will be my wife ? ” 

She let her hand lie in his, but she said steadily : 

“Ho ; I cannot be your wife.” 

“ But why ? You — you said you loved me ; you 
are not deceiving me ? You do love me, do you 
not?” 

“ Yes ; I love you.” 

“ Then tell me why. Oh, do not mock me ! ” 

She started to her feet, and her eyes shone with 
passion. 

“ Ho ; I do not mock you,” she cried. 

“ Then why do you say you cannot be my wife ?” 

She snatched her hand from his, and moved a step 
from him. 


414 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS, 


“ Because — because — ” She hesitated a second, 
then she went on : “ Look, Stephen Edgcumbe, sup- 
pose 'you had been reared amidst squalor, and drunk- 
enness, and vice. Suppose yon, in spite of it, had 
kept pure. Suppose you had resisted cruel tempta- 
tion, and had kept yourself unsullied. And suppose 
that I, Hope Hilly er, had been tenderly reared, and 
yet had fallen ; had given myself over to evil, had 
allowed myself to become vile, corrupt, the willing 
companion of evil men, for six years. Suppose that 
I had been reclaimed, would you, remembering my 
past, marry me ? ” 

She spoke passionately amidst her sobs ; spoke as 
though her words came between spasms of pain. 

“ Tell me, Stephen Edgcumbe, w^ould you — would 
you marry me ? ” 

The question staggered him ; he did not know how 
to answer it, and he was silent. 

“ You do not answer. Well, now, let me tell you 
something. You remember the time, — that night 
when I, a poor shivering little thing, was cursed by 
a drunken woman who bade me go and sin, that I 
might get her money. You know, too, that through 
your kindness I was sent to live with a pure, good 
woman. As I told you before, from that time you 
were my hero, my ideal, a sort of god whom I wor- 
shipped in secret. I thought no one like you. I 
remembered your words, telling me to be true to the 
name you gave me, and I treasured everything you 
said and did, in my heart. But I always regarded 
you as up so far away from me, so good, so grand. 
Well, after years I left that Home, and went to 
Kensington, and — and you have heard what hap- 
pened there. Then I made a resolve to find you. I 
do not know why I had not tried to do this before, 
except that I regarded you as so much above me, 
so far away from me. You seemed to exist in my 


THE REFINING FIRE. 


415 


thoughts rather than as an actual being. Well, I 
went to Mrs. Blewitt, and she told me that you were 
a married man when you came there to live ; that 
your wife had obtained a divorce from you. She 
told me also that she believed, as Dr. Eoberts be- 
lieved, that you had gone away to live a bad, 
dissolute life.” 

She stopped a second, and dashed the tears from 
her eyes ; then she went on again : — 

“ You cannot think what this meant to me. It 
shattered my idol ; it made me feel as though some- 
thing beautiful had gone out of my life. Then I 
remembered what you did for me, what you — you 
might have saved me from, and I made up my mind 
to give my life in helping poor fallen girls, who are 
often more sinned against than sinning, and I re- 
solved, too, to try and find out where you were. 

“ You know with what result. I followed you 
with a sort of a dog-like faithfulness; I seemed to 
feel that your salvation belonged to me. I owed it 
to you ; I loved you, — I think something like a dog 
loves its master. I called you ‘Master' to myself, 
and determined never to give up trying to save you. 

“ I will not talk about that awful night when you 
tried to end everything, or of the days that followed ; 
but when your friend told me, when I saw you had 
started on a better life, a strange joy came into my 
heart. I think I loved you then, but I did not know 
it. I found it out down at Ilfracombe, and then — 
the man who had been paying me attentions for months 
became as nothing to me. Although he would not 
take no for an answer, I told him I could never be 
anything to him. How could I ? — I loved you ! 
Then that fact that you loved me was revealed to 
me, and I felt sure this night was coming. I knew 
that some time, if you lived, you would ask me what 
you have asked me. Then came that — accident. I 


416 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


came to you then ; I nursed you till you were out of 
danger. I could not help that ; but when it was 
over, I could stay no longer. I loved you, and yet I 
loathed you. I could not think of those years when 
you — you were down yonder, without shuddering.” 

She stopped suddenly, and, laying her head on the 
table, sobbed convulsively. Presently she went on 
again : — 

“ I love you now ; every part of my life cries out 
for you. I would so willingly, if need be, lie down 
and die for you ; but when I remember the — the 
life you lived, and then to be — all that a wife should 
be to you — no ! no I I cannot — I should go mad ! ” 

Stephen stood before her like one stunned ; he could 
not answer her ; his heart became as heavy as lead, 
and it seemed as cold as ice. 

“ Would you — you, Stephen Edgcumbe, marry 
me if the cases were reversed ? Supposing that I 
had been as you have been, would you, knowing it, 
njarry me ? ” 

He hesitated again before replying. 

“ It ’s a terrible question, Hope ; but — but as God 
lives, if you repented as I do, if you loathed the past 
as I do, if you were cursed as I was, and it was — 
you, all the time you, — yes, I would marry you ; I 
would, and would find heaven in doing it. You see, 
I love you ! ” 

She looked at him, her gray eyes blazing with a 
strange light ; she seemed trying to make some great 
resolve ; then she said, with a shudder, — 

“ I love you, I love you — but no — I cannot ! I 
cannot ! ” 

“ Think again, Hope ! — cannot ? Oh, try and re- 
member, try again. Daniel has told you how my 
uncle and my tutor — ay, how everything and every- 
body — dinned this creed of the times in my ears. He 
has told you, too, how I, as a boy, madly worshipped 


THE REFINING FIRE, 


417 


a beautiful idol. You know the whole history of it : 
know how I fought, struggled ; know how everything 
conspired to make me believe the world to be a hell. 
People, churches, books, societies, all seemed to say 
the world is corrupt, there is no good, everything is 
rotten at the core. Oh, remember, Hope, my faith 
was gone, hope was gone ; the woman to whom I had 
given everything proved to be a creature without a 
heart, without love. What had I to live for ? I 
despaired of everything, while every bit of impurity 
in the world seemed to lure me to sell my soul for 
sensual pleasure. Perhaps it is wrong for me to try 
and find excuses for myself. I know I ought not to 
have done what I did ; I know it ! You cannot 
think how I loathe that life, how I shudder at its 
memory! And still it clings to me. I have re- 
pented, God knows that ; I have entered a new life, 
I know I have ; but the remembrance curses me, and 
whips me like the sting of scorpions. But, Hope, 
God has forgiven me ; cannot you ? Will you let my 
life be lonely and desolate — forsaken ? Is not your 
love for me great enough to burn up that terrible 
past ? I — I am clean now, Hope ; can you not 
love me for what I am — and try and forget what I 
was ? ” 

She stood like a statue, so still was she, and she 
spoke like one in a dream. 

I love you, Stephen — I love you ; but I cannot 
— cannot be a wife to you. I would if I could ; but 
I cannot, I cannot.” 

''That is your final answer ? ” 

“ It is. Yes — oh, you see, I knew those women 
— and — don’t ! You will kill me ! ” 

“ Very well ; I will go, then.” He staggered to the 
door, then he turned around, his face rigid as if with 
pain. 


27 


418 


ALL MEN ARE LIARS. 


“ God bless you, Hope ! ” be said hoarsely; “you 
have saved me, after all Perhaps, perhaps — ” 

He did not finish the sentence, but walked into 
the hall, and fumbled in the dim light to find his hat 
and overcoat. 

Hope stood alone in the room as he had left her, 
and her heart was torn with pain. When he left, 
brightness went, joy went. Like lightning her mind 
swept over the past, and in a second she seemed to 
live it all over again. What should she have been 
but for him ? Ay, and if she had fallen, and repented 
as he repented, had she been purified as he had been 
purified, would she not have been worthy to be the 
wife of a pure man ? Was not Mary Magdalene 
worthy ? And if she were worthy, might not he be ? 
Besides, who was wholly pure, in thought, in heart ? 
Did she love him truly — really ? Did she love the 
God who had saved him ? 

Then it seemed as though a greater love entered 
her life, — a love more pure, more unselfish. A great 
refining fire began to burn in her heart, a fire from 
heaven. 

She heard him stagger to the door with a heavy 
tread ; and she knew his heart was breaking. 

“ Stephen ! ” 

He came back, and saw her standing with love-lit 
eyes. He knew that the gulf was bridged. 

He went towards her. He only spoke one word, 
but in it there was unspeakable joy — in it was 
heaven. The past, blighted, corrupt, was gone ; be- 
fore him was light. 

“ Hope ! ” he cried ; and it meant everything to 
him. 


THE END. 


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